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the-blind-assassin-12 · 4 years

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Point of No Return - Part One

A/N: Hi. So I have not been able to stop thinking about Ezra and Cee and the world that they inhabit in the film Prospect since I first watched it a few months back. My initial reaction to the movie was that I craved more from that world. There is so much rich detail and background for the story to take root in and the characters (and what they have been through) were so compelling to me that it left me with so many questions. Who was Ezra before he runs into Cee? What did he leave behind to peruse his goals on the Green? Who could Cee become without the constant shadow of her father looming over her? With someone supportive in her life instead? What other types of prospecting or harvesting jobs are there out there and what drove Ezra to Aurelac? What other kinds of weird food items and technology exist in this world?! So... I let my imagination go a little off the rails and this was the result.

This story is honestly a blast for me to write so I truly hope that if you read it you enjoy it. Please feel free to ask me any questions or let me know what you think. If you would like to be added to this taglist just send me a message or leave me a comment and I will gladly add you! :)

Warnings: discussion of death, injuries, illness, loss

Summary: It’s been five long years since Clara last saw Ezra, the man she loved with more of herself than she ever thought possible, the two falling apart under the weight of a heavy loss in the family. Most of the time she has enough work on her Thulian farm to keep her thoughts from him, but the harvest season always dredges up memories both precious and painful. She tries to push the emotions away to focus on her work, but when she receives a message from a mysterious caller it becomes clear that that will simply be impossible this time.

Word Count: 5.8k

It wasn’t quite morning yet.

Only a sliver of the harvest star was visible over the horizon, its bright amber light muted by the lingering vestiges of night. Soon it would rise fully, igniting the landscape with its burning orange glow and seemingly setting the Thulian Grass ablaze. Dawn cracked quickly into day during the harvest season, giving farmers longer hours to cut back the stalks and collect the ripened pollen. For now though, the fields that surrounded the small house still appeared to be a soft dusty rose color, the tops of the tall grass ruffling in the cool breeze.

Clara stifled a yawn against the backs of her bent fingers as she headed down the creaky stairs. It was dark and quiet in the house and there was no reason other than habit for her to be hiding her sleepiness. Abe didn’t care if she was tired so long as his bowl was full, and it would be hours before the grumpy old cat would move from his preferred nesting spot in the bedroom’s window seat. Lazy beast. The farm hands stayed in a loft over the barn that her father had converted into living quarters years ago, when the farm was in its prime and they’d needed extra help almost year round. It comfortably housed up to ten, though now only half that many workers occupied the space for just a few weeks at a time. Aside from Clara and the cat, the rest of the house was empty.

She let another yawn slip out, this one unhindered as she brought both hands up to scoop her hair back, fingers deftly winding an elastic band around it. Securing her shoulder length chocolate brown waves in a ponytail, she pulled it tight as she descended the last few steps. A few strays got wound around and between her ring and middle fingers and she pulled them loose with a sigh. What’s a few more grays gone? Wiggling her digits she let the strands fall free and reached the bottom of the staircase, immediately turning left into the small kitchen.

Through the circular window above the sink she could see the light on in the loft, a pinprick of golden yellow across the sea of pink in the pre-dawn. Siggi’s got ‘em up already. She smiled and flicked the wall switch to light up the room. Good. The lost and confused 19 year old college dropout who had turned up looking for work during the harvest season seven years ago and had never so much as held a shovel let alone swung a sickle had developed into quite the farmer, proving to himself and everyone that the scholastic route had never been for him. Even when her father had to retire and they had to downsize the operation, Clara kept Siggi on as the full time manager- the only other full timer apart from herself. While he still stayed in the loft for the three weeks during harvest, he had moved into an apartment over the hill in town with his girlfriend, making the forty five minute commute for the rest of the year by hovercar.

He didn’t know it yet, but at the close of the current season Clara planned on talking to him about his interest in buying the farm from her one day. It’s gotta go to someone. She couldn’t think of anyone else she’d want her family’s property to go to. She had a cousin with two kids on Central but his only interest in the land would be in selling it, the man telling her so point blank. It didn’t surprise her since he had never actually set foot there, but keeping the farm within the family was less important to Clara than making sure it went to someone who would continue to care for it as she had. With Seth gone and no children of her own, she couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather it go to than Siggi. It won’t be for another nine or ten years at least but… She sighed, opening the cabinet above the sink and pulling down the large white canister of high-caf tea. But it would give him time to save if he is interested and- she peeled the lid off the canister, spooning three heaping scoops of the dried leaf powder into the brew pouch on the counter kettle. And it would make me feel better knowing it was going to him and not developers or contractors.

Frowning, she was reminded of what happened with Briggs’ farm, just a few miles from her own front door, when the man became too old and sick to work and couldn’t keep up the payments. With no one to take the reins from him, the land had gone up for auction, ending up in the hands of some rich Central asshole like her cousin. Last year, for the entire three week harvest while she and Siggi and the other seasonal hires toiled in the Thulian fields, they were treated to the constant grinding and pounding of construction machinery as it ripped up Briggs’ once fruitful farm and readied it to be built up into luxury condominiums. I won’t let that happen. Not to my fields. Not… Clara jammed the start button on the kettle, swallowing a lump of emotion before shaking her head. Stop it, Clara, it’s too damn early for that.

With the Aurelac rush drying up though, prospectors, freighter captains, jewelers, investors and anyone else who had made their money in the rare root gems were cashing out and looking for places to spend their wealth in comfort. Kamrea was a first choice for many of them, and for many reasons. It was a temperate planet with only a few weeks of what could be considered winter weather, the air was breathable, the water potable, and the ground exceptionally fertile, Thulian, Crater-Apples, Potatoes, countless herbs and a cornucopia of other produce grew in abundance there. Its close proximity to Central, where most of the galaxy’s Aurelac crews took off for the Bakhroma System, also meant that a large Kamrean population worked in the industry. It was why finding seasonal help on the farm was never a problem during the height of the rush- men and women from all over the galaxy had made the planet their temporary home between runs to the Green Moon, finding themselves in need of work between digs.

Like Ezra.

The kettle hissed, steam beginning to rise as the dark purple liquid started dripping into the waiting thermos, and though the air that came through the open windows was warm Clara shivered. She placed her hands on the countertop and closed her eyes. If she took a deep breath and tuned out all but the sound of the tea brewing, she could call back a memory that was almost strong enough to feel- His arms winding around her from behind, lips brushing first along her shoulder whether she was wearing a shirt with sleeves or not, then landing close to her ear as he pressed his body to hers. His scent, like the forest and the fields, the stream and clean sweat mixing with the herbal smell of the tea and completely intoxicating her as she leaned back into his broad chest. “You know, you make it exceedingly difficult for me sometimes, Huckleberry”. The tip of his nose tracing the edge of her ear before his patchy beard raked along the skin behind it as she, breathless, struggled to ask him what it was she made so difficult. “Determining whether I am awake-“ A kiss to her temple, his arms tightening around her. “-Or still only dreaming of having you in my embrace.”

Opening her eyes she felt the warmth that steeping in the memory had given her leave in a rush. It always did, always hurting more than the ache she’d used it to soothe. This season would mark five years since the last time she’d stood on the porch and watched him go. Since he left. Since I… The kettle finished brewing, clicking as the drip stopped abruptly. Since I told him not to come back until he was done with… She could feel the sting of tears forming in the corners of her eyes and forcibly blinked them back. It was without a doubt her biggest, heaviest regret and it weighed on her heart most ruthlessly at this time of year, the season that had brought him to her and that had also become the annual reminder of his departure from her life.

Pulling the first thermos from the kettle, she twisted the cover on before any of the heat could escape. She went on autopilot then, setting it aside and replacing it with a second, going about the process and scooping more powder into the brew pouch. She had two more to fill after after that to ensure the whole crew had enough energy to get through the long shift. Clara had very few rules on the farm, but one that she was adamant about was that stim chew was not allowed on the premises. She was happy to provide as much high-caf tea as her crew could drink though, the natural substance working just as well to invigorate without giving the user shakes and headaches. And it wasn’t addictive.

She used the time to pull herself together. Stupid. She knew the risk that came with thinking about him, giving in to such a powerful memory about the man she still loved so powerfully no matter how they’d both let each other down in those last few months before he left. Her pain, her anger, the things she felt when she had told him not to come back if he was going on the path he had laid out for her, they were real and she didn’t blame herself for feeling them. She was grieving, not just for Seth, but for Ezra, too. He wasn’t the same after… And then that next trip, when he- An uneven breath burst from her lips, the next few coming out the same way. I never should have let him go back after we lost Seth.

She sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her palms, blotting the rest of that thought from her mind. His decisions were clouded by grief then, too. She saw that now, understood it. He loved her brother just as much as she did, and he had taken that loss extremely hard. So hard that he couldn’t be there for her, or at least that’s what he had convinced himself of. I wasn’t there the way he needed me to be either though. I… pushed him away. And I never pulled him back.

She switched out the thermos again, twisting the lid on, setting it down, the grainy sound of the scoop moving through the tea powder punctuating the silence as she refilled the brew pouch a third time. Outside the sky was lightening to a pale whitish blue, roughly one third of the harvest Star peeking over the curve of the planet. She’d lived there all her life but it was still breathtaking how quickly the enormous orb appeared in the sky this time of year, how with each blink it rose higher and got brighter until suddenly your eyes couldn’t drink the vivid colors in quickly enough, everything as bright as it had ever been intended to be. It was beautiful and it made her thankful to call the place her home.

Though without Ezra, without Seth, could she really call it that?

Yes. The thought came swiftly as she watched the fields come alive in vibrant hues of pink, flecks of pollen starting to shine in the first rays of light. She felt it in her chest, a swelling that made her take a breath. It made her conscious of her own heartbeat. This is where she and Seth grew up, running through the hollow Thulian stems in the winter or collecting smooth stones from the stream after the rainy season. This is where she learned everything she knew about farming and hard work from her father, the man also teaching her to save time for joy and celebration. This is where she met Ezra, where they spent three years so deeply and fully in love that she could still feel him after more than that much time apart. If this wasn’t her home, filled with all of that, then she never had one.

By the time she placed the fourth thermos under the kettle the kitchen was bathed in radiant harvest light. A slight orange tinge touched everything as the Star finally rose completely over the horizon. Clara turned back towards the doorway and reached out to click the light switch off. Artificial light was only necessary a few hours a day during the harvest weeks. It would still be light out when they finished work for the day, all of them likely falling into bed before needing to turn on a lamp once it finally got dark at night. Turning back around she saw that Siggi had doused the loft light, too. They’re probably heading down now. She gave herself until the final thermos was full to finish composing her emotions, closing them off as she twisted the lid on.

There was hard work to be done, and it required her full attention and awareness. The tools they used to harvest the puffy pink pollen sacks were sharp and she’d seen with her own eyes what they could do in the hands of someone who wasn’t thinking clearly. For her own safety and for that of her fellow harvesters, she couldn’t bring those feelings- the way she ached with regret and how badly she missed him and how thoroughly terrified it made her to wonder why he had still not come back- into the fields. There was no place for it there, not now.

She packed the four thermoses of tea and a few reusable cups into a large satchel along with a small case of Bits Bars. They weren’t her first choice but they were fast, available nutrition for the long day. Full of flavor, the package boasted. Kevva knows that’s a lie. She rolled her eyes. As soon as the season was wrapped up she always cooked a huge meal for the whole team, and anyone who had ever worked for Clara or her father knew that they had a place at her table for any and all holidays. But no one complained about the provided rations during the season, so she tried not to feel guilty about the offering.

Adding a first aid field kit to the bag, she closed it and set it down on the small table before stooping to open the lower cabinet. Most importantly… Pulling out the bag of kibble, she filled Abe’s bowl in the corner of the kitchen and refreshed his water. Alright, your highness, you’re all set. She smiled to herself as she stowed the kibble. Though the rotund striped orange cat spent most of his time snoozing in the window and typically couldn’t be bothered with the goings on of daily life on the farm, he was affectionate towards Clara, jumping into her lap at the end of the day, rubbing his chin on her knuckles and generally giving her something to look forward to. Ezra used to joke about the cat’s laziness, citing the one occasion when Abe had actually stood by and allowed a family of channel rats to move into the basement, but Clara knew that the man had a soft spot for her pet, even as he grumbled about having to deal with the pests himself. Though he’d been born feral, Clara finding him as a kitten, yowling alone in the barn, Abe had never been a hunter. Without his bowl of kibble he would be completely lost. But despite his pacifist, helpless nature meaning that she could never count on him to keep rodents out, Clara would be lost without the little furry lump, too.

Abe taken care of for the day and the necessary supplies packed, she slung the bag over her shoulder and headed out the back door onto the porch that wrapped around the old farmhouse. The field directly to the right of the house had already been processed, the pink pollen stored in the silver silo attached to the barn, ready to be tumbled and bagged as soon as the other two fields had been harvested. The sweet smelling powder was used in a number of products ranging from paint to perfume either to add fragrance or color, and because Clara kept with her father’s method of only using natural fertilizers, the Thulian farmed on her property was even rated for use in food and drink. Though the field that was finished was the smallest, she and the team had made good time with it, getting it squared away in only four days and giving themselves a bit of a cushion when it came to getting the other two larger fields done. The time crunch really only applied while the pollen was still on the stalk, the ripening process halting as soon as the sacks were sliced from the tops. But having a little bit of leeway took some of the pressure off and that made keeping morale up much easier.

Once Clara had turned the corner, coming around to the front of the house, she saw Siggi striding across the field, dragging harvesting equipment behind him. He raised one arm over his head, the bright light glinting off his flaxen hair as he waved to her. She returned the gesture, then pulled the bandana that was tied around her neck up over her mouth and nose. The Thulian wasn’t toxic, but it made your nostrils and throat tickle if inhaled in large quantities. It also stained skin and hair and clothing, especially when mixed with sweat, but there wasn’t much to be done about that aside from much needed showers at the day’s end. Ready for work, she walked down off the porch and made her way towards where her team was setting up at the far side of the middle field.

Had she waited just a second or two longer she may have heard the beep coming from the communicator screen that hung next to the light switch near the door in the kitchen. The call that came through then might have been answered instead of being directed to her inbox, continuing to beep every thirty seconds until the message was retrieved and played.

Eight hours later, Clara trudged back up to the house to refill two of the tea thermoses, this time with cold water. Wiping the back of her hand across her sweat slicked forehead, she could feel the pink powder leaving a rosy streak across her skin. Yanking the bandana down off her face, she licked her dry lips and opened the door to the kitchen. The air cooling system whirred gently and the conditioned air hit her face instantly as she stepped inside, drying the smudge of pollen on both her face and over her knuckles. It was a hot one, and she was glad to step inside for water and for the reprieve. She’d told Siggi and the others to take a break in the shade until she returned, and peering out the circular window she could see them sprawled out in the open doorway of the barn. Good.

As soon as she placed the thermoses in the sink to rinse them out, Abe came scuttling into the kitchen, meowing loudly and circling her ankles. She bent down to stroke his hunched back as he continued to cry out. “Hey Mister, what’s got you all in a-”

But the beep of the message indicator on the communication screen cut off the rest of her question, and she rose, turning in the direction of the machine. Abe didn’t like the sound that the machine made when there was a message waiting, she knew that. “Sorry, little guy,” she muttered to the cat as she walked over to the wall to stop the sound. He meowed back and she had to laugh at how animated he was. “I know, I know, I’m the worst, leaving you alone with the big bad beep.” He headbutted her calf as she started entering her passcode to play the message, and as soon as he heard the automated voice of the inbox menu, he trotted happily out of the kitchen. Clara shook her head, still chuckling at the cat, his heavy footsteps still audible from the next room.

Sighing, she pressed the play button, ready to hear some recording pertaining to new market guidelines or offers from developers looking to purchase her land. She leaned casually against the doorframe, finger hovering over the delete button, ready to press it if her assumptions were correct. Who else would it be anyway? The machine beeped, and the message played.

There was a pause, only a shaky breath coming through the speaker, but already enough to tell her that the message was not a recording. Dropping her hand away from the screen, she looked more closely at the number, the three digit code at the beginning making her forehead crease with confusion. 763? That’s… Double checking the chart that was installed on the screen, she confirmed what she had thought. That’s the Med Center on Central.

She had no time to process that information though, the caller finally speaking, the young female voice sounding thin and anxious. “H-hello? This...this message is for Clara.”

Who is that? Her heart pounded at the fear and uncertainty in this girl’s voice- this girl who knew her name and where to reach her. She stood up straight then, but kept her hold on the doorframe, a strange dizziness striking her as the message continued.

“Clara? I’m,” she took another shuddering breath and cleared her throat, “My name is Cee and I’m… I’m here on Central at the Med Center w-with,” a sharp inhale, a stunted release of air, “With a man named Ezra and-”

All the air in the room was gone as she heard his name, the walls falling away and the ceiling tumbling to the floor. Ezra. She heard the gasp that fell from her lungs as she tightened her grip on the frame, her knees buckling slightly. Ezra. He’s alive, he’s- She realized then that the message was still playing but the rushing in her ears had drowned it out and she couldn’t hear the rest of the girl’s trembling words. Wait. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision and brought a quivering hand up to the control panel to punch in the code that would restart the message. If she’s calling from the Med Center that means… Her blood ran cold as she stared at the machine intently this time, waiting to hear the rest of it.

“H-hello? This...this message is for Clara. Clara? I’m- my name is Cee and I’m… I’m here on Central at the Med Center w-with...with a man named Ezra and I- he...he needs your help.” There was another pause and Clara heard a sniff followed by a soft whine before the girl spoke again. “Please, I don’t know… there’s no one else for me to call. He’s...he’s hurt and...and sick and all I have is your contact information and-” Clara’s chest clenched as the girl’s words started coming more rapidly, the adrenaline that was shaking her voice causing the speed at which she spoke to double. “Please, if you don’t help him they’ll just...they’ll put him in the system and…” Clara shivered at the thought of Ezra or anyone she cared about being shoved off into the poorly run social system of healthcare. “Please, Clara, call this number back, please. He… the only thing he’s said in the last twenty four hours has been your name.”

Tears ran down her cheeks freely then despite not knowing when they started. She knew that they were leaving painted streaks of Thulian dye where they trailed but there was no stopping them. A small sob fought it’s way free even as she tried to silence it to take down the number that the girl, Cee, had given her. Ezra. She could feel his warm breath on the crest of her shoulder, his strong arms flexing around her, her heart absolutely jubilant to know that he was alive. But in the next beat she clenched her eyes closed as the message played again in her mind. He’s hurt and sick. A sudden terrible twisting sensation started up in her stomach then, and she was helpless against the thought that those words conjured- that the cruelty of the universe was about to rear its hideous head again and steal him from her the second she got him back. Another sob, this one more ragged, ripped itself free. Ezra…

There was no doubt in her mind or in her heart or her soul that she would be calling back. She knew without hesitation that she would do whatever was asked of her in order to provide what she could for the man. But even though she spent years wishing she could take back the last things she had said to him, his reemergence in her life, so shrouded with danger and darkness left her paralyzed. Once she had the number copied, she turned and slid her back down the wall until she plopped onto the ground, the room still spinning behind her closed eyes. Ezra.

She knew the man she met back when her father hired him, the man she had gotten to know throughout that season. She knew the man that she fell hard and fast in love with, and she knew the man who had come back broken once before. She knew the man she had loved and lost but she had no idea who this man was now. Would there be anything left of the Ezra she’d known? Was there anything left of her that he would recognize?

She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there, tears silently running down her face in pink streams, her eyes focused on the far wall, but it had been long enough to draw Siggi’s curiosity, Clara coming out of her stupor only when she registered the man kneeling in front of her and snapping his fingers.

“Clara? Hey, Clara, c’mon look at me, will ya?” There was concern in his voice, and as she blinked back to reality she saw it swirling in his eyes, too, their dark blue depths clearing only when he noticed that she seemed to notice him. “Hey,” she sighed in relief, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You scared me for a minute, thought you overheated there, boss.” Clara tried to respond but could only swallow the lump that formed in lieu of words. “Boss?” Siggi’s brow furrowed again, smudges of Thulian powder drying in the creases there. “Hey, Clara, what h-”

“It’s Ezra, Sig.” She was finally able to summon up enough vocal strength to respond, and even then her voice came out in a thin whisper, like the girl on the message. “He’s… he’s alive and I-” That was as much as she could get out before her eyes swam and tears clogged up her throat again. It was as much as he needed- Siggi had been there for most of their relationship. Ezra had even contributed quite a bit to his training on the farm the first year he was there, Siggi developing a sort of mentorship with the man for the short while they worked together. And he knew how it had wrecked Clara when he had left five years ago.

“Oh, shit, Clara…” She felt his hand squeeze the top of her shoulder as he sat next to her before opening his arm for her to lean into him, transitioning from employee to friend- family- in that moment. He let her cry into his shirt, not caring that it was soaking pink stains into the collar. After a few hefty sobs left her empty for the time being, he spoke again. “Listen, I’m gonna go back out with the guys and finish up for the day.” He pulled back and made her look him in the eye as he continued. “You take all the time you need, call whoever you have to call and… if you haveta go anywhere, Clara, you go, hear me?” He nodded confidently and she tearfully nodded back. “Me’an the team’ll take care of whatever we have to.”

I know you will, Sig. She leaned forward and hugged the young man who reminded her so much of Seth in so many ways, but who was so much himself in just as many. “Thank you,” she managed, knowing that he’d hear everything those two words really meant. He helped her up off the floor then, and she waited until he had refilled the two water thermoses and left, the screen door swinging shut on its hinges behind him.

The air filtration system hummed and the screen on the wall, though no longer beeping, still flashed with the message that she hadn’t deleted yet. Clara played it one last time before calling back the number that this unknown girl had given her, trying to see if there were any clues she had missed that would tell her what to expect about Ezra’s current state. There were none, just the frightened, desperate way that Cee’s voice made her think of the sparrows that hopped and flitted among the branches of the crater-oak out back. Who are you, Cee?

Taking one final deep breath, Clara entered the combination of numbers that connected her to the Med Center on Central, and the case worker that had been assigned to Ezra.

Extensive bodily trauma resulting in field amputation and infection. A shallow chest wound that had also become infected. Damage to his lungs from the volume of toxic spores he had inhaled while on the Green Moon. She felt herself go numb as the woman on the other end of the phone rattled off the list of things that he was battling. He’d been put into a medically induced coma so that they could focus on bringing the fevers down and getting the infections under control, and as long as that happened within the next day, he would be released from Intensive Care. The case worker explained that Ezra had no other contact, no one else to come for him, and that if Clara couldn’t, or chose not to, he would be turned over to the social system… and so would the girl that had come in with him. She was a minor, and not his biological child, and unless Clara wanted to collect her as well, she’d go into foster care in one of the cities there on Central.

Ezra had only told her some of the stories of his childhood, he and his brother growing up bouncing from home to home, city to city, sometimes even to other planets and once, spending an entire year aboard a freighter without ever setting foot on solid soil. She shivered knowing that no matter who this child was to him, he wouldn’t want her being shoved off on someone else- not when she knew that he hadn’t even told her the worst of his memories. The ones he had shared were bleak enough.

“No, I’ll… I’ll come. For both of them I’ll…” She cleared her throat to speak more clearly, the woman asking her to repeat herself and confirm what she’d just said. “I’ll come.” She said evenly, somehow. “I’ll… tell me where to be and I...I’ll come.”

The woman responded positively, letting her know that she would need to be at the local Med Center there on Kamrea late afternoon the following day. If for some reason his condition worsened overnight and he was unfit for transport, they would give her a call in the morning with new information. If everything went well, the medical team would keep Ezra sedated long enough to get him to Kamrea and back to Clara’s home, the case worker ensuring that they would set her up with whatever medications and dressings she would need to continue to care for him. Her heart pounded in her ears as she agreed to it all, the woman finally asking Clara if she had any further questions.

“The girl?” She heard her own breathless voice ask. “Is… was she hurt at all? Is she sick, too?”

The case worker quickly answered that while the girl, 14, Cee, had also suffered some minor lung irritation from the toxins on the Green, and was slightly underweight and dehydrated upon arrival at the Med Center, she was otherwise in good health with no major injuries. Clara allowed herself a moment of calm, thankful that the girl, this scared, stranger, was alright.

“D-do you know how she...how they came to be traveling together?”

The woman only knew that the girl said her father had been killed on the Green, and that Ezra had protected her and helped her get off of the moon in time to catch the last slingback to the BG-Central freighter. Apparently she was in shock herself and wasn’t willing to say much to anyone, only that she wanted to stay with the unconscious man she arrived with. As there were no missing persons reports out for the girl, and the Med Center had dealt with teens orphaned on the Green before, they didn’t press her for questions, looking only for someone they could pass the problem along to.

“I’ll be there,” Clara stated again before hanging up.

Abe came sauntering back into the kitchen just as Clara entered the code that erased the message, the blinking light going dark. His gentle nudge with the top of his fuzzy head against her ankle was accompanied by a soft meow, as though he’d heard the entire conversation and knew what Clara was feeling at that moment. She let her breath out slowly as she stooped down to scoop the cat up, cuddling him close to her chest, careful not to get too much of the pink powder that coated her clothing on his fur.

“He’s coming home, Abe.” The cat purred at that. “Ezra. He’s coming home.”

Thank you for reading! If you would like to be added to or removed from the tags, please feel free to let me know! :)

Tags: @something-tofightfor @alraedesigns @pheedraws @shoopidly

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lockefanfic · 4 years

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Green Silk

Part 1 of this series of oneshots.

“I’m going to ask her to marry me,” he said as she excused herself from the table to go to the washroom, not knowing that every syllable that left his mouth was a dagger into your heart.

On the outside you smiled, laughed, clapped him on the back and said the words of encouragement that were necessary and expected of a best friend. That’s what best friends did.

On the inside you struggled to contain the emptiness in the chest one feels upon receiving ill news. You suddenly would’ve rather been anywhere else, anywhere else on Earth aside from this bar where you’d decided, foolishly, to meet up with your friends for drinks.

“Listen,” he says, turning to you, seeing the proud eyes of his best friend but blissfully unaware of the pain and anguish building just behind them. “I… I’ve been thinking about it, and honestly, I have to thank you. I wouldn’t have met her if it weren’t for you.”

“Bro, naw, don’t worry about it,” you say, adding a shrug and a wave of your hand for emphasis, even as the knot of emotions in your throat threatened to choke out your ability to speak.

“No, I’m serious,” he continues, his arm on your back now, his hands squeezing your right shoulder in a friendly hug. “You met her first. You had dibs. But you still let me take a shot. And now here we are three years later and I’m like, an hour away from proposing to her.”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, where he withdraws a small red velvet box. The glint in his eyes and the smile on his lips are those of a young man who knows his life was about to change that night.

“Bro, I’m so proud of you,” you say once more as he puts the ring away. You bring him close for a hug, ostensibly to show your pride - but in reality so that he wouldn’t see your eyes and the emotions they would betray.

“I’m gonna go take a piss. I’ll grab drinks on the way back to celebrate,” you manage to spit as you rise from the table. Your eyes are watering. The lump in your throat is thickening. You needed to get away.

“Just don’t mix those two up!” your best friend replies, before some other friend at the table cracks a joke, and his attention finally, mercifully, leaves you.

A whirlwind of emotions assault you as you stumble towards the back of the bar, alcohol and feelings and nostalgia all mixing into a heady cocktail that you weren’t quite ready for, weren’t sure you would ever be ready for.

You wanted so much to be proud of him - of your best friend, who’d shared so much of your ups and downs in the many years you’d known him. After so many shitty relationships he’d finally found someone he’d wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

All thanks to you.

You’d known her for almost a decade, having met while you were both in university. You’d kept in touch after graduation, and when the small start-up company you’d worked for had finally decided it was time to hire a full time marketing manager, and she fit the bill perfectly. You’d become close friends since you started working together, and while it was clear you were both attracted to one another, the stars never aligned. You were both too busy with work or meaningless dead-end relationships. That moment - the moment that takes a friendship and turns it into a relationship - never came.

One day you decided to invite your best friend to after-work drinks. She was there as well. You thought nothing of it. You didn’t know that you’d find yourself regretting sending that invitation for years to come.

When he asked you to introduce him to her that night, you did. When he asked you if it was okay for him to ask her out you said yes. When they started going out, you were happy for them. And when they became serious, you were proud of them.

Because that’s what best friends did.

You rub your forehead as you approach the rear of the bar and the hallway where its washrooms were located. You could feel a headache starting. You decided that perhaps it would be best if you made up some excuse and left - you weren’t sure how you could handle seeing them together, just minutes before they became enga-

“Hey,” comes a soft voice to your left - and a pale hand on your shoulder stops you mid stride.

When your eyes meet hers you feel the breath leave your lungs - the same way they often did when you made eye contact.

“H-hey,” you manage to mumble, caught off guard. Her hand leaves your arm, and you both stand there awkwardly, unable to look each other in the eye. You both stare at the floor and your feet.

“I was… just on my way to the washroom,” you say beneath your breath. You look down the hallway towards the washrooms, unwilling to face her.

“That’s a lie, and you know it,” she says suddenly. Her accusation causes you to look up at her, and while those beautiful features of hers are as bright as they usually are, there is a hint of something else behind her eyes.

“Red handed,” you admit, raising your hands.

“He’s going to propose to me tonight,” she says softly, eyes returning to the floor.

“Really? Wow, that’s great-”

“Don’t pretend he didn’t just tell you,” she says, looking up at you again. “You know how he can’t keep a secret. You know him.”

You smile, although it is a sad one, with little happiness behind it. “Yeah, I do,” you admit.

“Then you should know how terrible he is at hiding jewelry brochures,” she says, this time with a soft smile of her own.

“Yeah,” you say, not quite sure how else to respond.

You both stand there awkwardly for a few moments, your eyes locked on one another. The bar is busy, and the loud voices and shouts of the crowd fill your ears, but you registered none of it. You stood only a few feet away from her in the cramped hallway, but it felt like it may as well have been miles.

“Congratulations,” you say, and while you intended the words to sound sincere, your heart betrays you, and your voice cracks slightly.

A sad smile appears on her lips. Her eyes glisten in the low light of the hallway. Her bottom lip gives the slightest of trembles.

“Thank you,” she answers softly.

You turn away to continue down the hallway when her hand reaches out to your arm to stop you from going any further. You stand there for a split second, her small hand on the crook of your elbow. It lasts only a second. It feels like forever.

She pulls you towards her until you are facing her. Her lips crash into yours.

Nothing could have prepared you for it. Neither of you could have said or done anything that could justify it. But as her soft, sweet lips press themselves against yours you knew damn well that you loved every moment of it.

It is over too soon - and when she breaks the kiss her eyes look into yours with desire and need and a million other emotions that you knew she’d been keeping inside for far too long.

“Just once, please,” she says, barely above a whisper.

She reaches down to your hand, grasping it with hers, and leads you down the hallway. She pushes open the door at the end of it, revealing an empty staircase leading to the upper floors.

Even before you are fully past the door she is already pulling you towards herself, molding her small body against yours as she pushes you against the wall. Your hands embrace her torso involuntarily, wrapping your arms around her, delighting in the feel of her warm frame against yours. All the while your lips continue to duel, your tongues searching for and finding one another as you kiss.

Her lips taste of sweet cherry and her breath smells of a beer or two.

The kiss tastes like sin.

Your hands roam her body, delighting in the feel of delicious curves beneath thin silk. She was wearing a tight, short strapless green dress that clung to her like a second skin, making it easy for you to appreciate the delicious curve of her naked back, her small waist, and the round fullness of her ass.

She gasps a little as you palm her butt, her breath filling your mouth as she exhales into it. She breaks the kiss, and you both stare at each other, faces mere inches apart. You both stand there for a few seconds, teetering on the edge, ready to pull yourselves away and apart - or fall willingly over it.

She makes the decision for you.

“Take me, please, just once, oh, please, just once…”

Her pleas break down the last of your restraint, the last vestiges of caution still present in your lust-addled mind. A decade of unfulfilled lust and need joined you both on the edge and threw you both over it.

You turn her around so that her back is against the wall, and you dive into her neck with your mouth, filling your mouth with her taste and your nose with her scent. She tastes of vanilla chased with lust; she smells like strawberries and raw need. She gasps softly as you begin to explore her body, her open mouth next to your ear giving breathless voice to the sinful pleasure quickly building within her.

Your trail of kisses reaches her upper chest - and she is the one who grasps the top of her dress and pulls it down, revealing her perfect, round breasts. They bounce free from their silk prison for only a moment before your mouth is on them, wet tongue quickly latching onto her stiff nipples, swiping the hard bud with long, needy licks before latching on to it and sucking deeply.

Her gasp turns into a moan as you suckle from her breast. Your hand finds her other mound and teases the nipple there as well. Her own hands are not idle - they go from digging almost painful furrows into your scalp to down between your bodies, where she quickly finds the buckle of your belt and begins to undo it.

It’s your turn to moan out loud when she finds your cock, already stiff with excitement at the opportunity to indulge in the body of a young woman you’d lusted after for so many years. Her slim, thin fingers wrap themselves around your shaft, quickly pumping as best she could given the position and the fact that you were still suckling on her breasts.

“I need you, in my mouth, please, just once,” she gasps, the words spilling from her mouth, each syllable heavy with pleasure and lust and need.

You finally tear your mouth from her to look her in the eyes - hair frazzled, breathing heavily, dress pulled down to reveal saliva-streaked breasts. But she looked no less beautiful. You’d never needed her more.

She wastes no time - soon she has dropped to her knees. You almost wished you had a moment to just stand there and take in the moment. But she was having none of it. She’d waited a decade for this moment. And so had you.

When she takes you into her mouth you feel like you’d just died. So many years of being the good friend. So many shared hours in the classroom or in the office or at the bar, searching and waiting for a moment that would never come. So much tension built up over long gazes at one another, accidental touches and goodbye hugs whenever you parted. And it all found its release here, in the back stairwell of a bar, on the eve of her engagement to another man.

You look down, almost afraid to watch for fear that the sight of her taking you in and out of her mouth would drive you insane. But when you finally gaze down, and find her eyes looking back at yours, you wonder if there were any sight that could have been more lustful, more intensely intoxicating.

And the feel - of her tongue pressed against the underside of your shaft and swirling around your tip with each bob of her head, and of her hot, wet mouth and those tight, soft pink lips wrapped around it - it was almost too much to handle. You watch as she pumps the base of your cock with her left hand while her right hand plays with the wet flesh between her thighs. It was probably a minute or so she spent there, on her knees, sucking deeply and firmly on your cock as she fingers herself. Every second of it felt like an eternity.

Every second of it felt like sin.

She was forbidden fruit now; not simply another man’s girlfriend - now soon to be another man’s fiance. She was already alluring. Now she was irresistible, and you had to have more.

You grasp her naked shoulders softly and pull her up. She lets out a soft moan as your cock leaves her mouth one last time, but she knows what is to come next. Her eyes tell you all you needed to know. They tell you she wanted this, had been wanting it for as long as you had - consequences be damned.

She reaches down between your bodies and grasps the hem of her dress, pulling it up towards her waist, revealing her lack of underwear - and the glistening pink lips between her thighs. She looks up at you, eyes half-lidded with need.

“Fuck me, please.”

You reach down and grasp the back of her knees before lifting her up off the ground, pressing her against the wall. She wraps her legs around your waist. You reach down and point yourself at her entrance. You slip inside her.

When you fill her completely for the first time you both let out a long gasp into each others’ shoulders. A need fulfilled, a lust sated - but one that was tinged with the betrayal of a man who was close to you both.

Sinful pleasure. But the sinfulness, the wrongness - it made the pleasure more intense.

You begin to thrust into her, fucking her against the wall. The years of need and frustration give you all the strength you need to hold the entirety of her weight. She was already wasn’t very heavy - but tonight she may as well have weighed nothing.

The tight, wet, hot silk of her pussy; the light, airy gasps of barely restrained lust leaving her mouth and filling your ears; the warm heat of her long legs and soft thighs wrapped around your waist - intoxicating, inebriating. You were drunk on her, and you needed every drop of the drink she was pouring down your willing throat.

Gasps and moans fill your left ear in a wordless jumble of sounds. No words, no dirty talk - only the sounds of a woman giving in to temptation and sin. What words could either of you possibly say in this situation? Words were foreign concepts. There was only lust, and need, and sex - and the only language here was the one being spoken by your bodies.

Your cock drills into her again and again and again, her wet slickness lathering your shaft with juices, some of it dripping down onto your balls and splashing wetly in small drops on the floor. Her nails begin to dig almost painfully into your shoulders. She could have drawn blood, and you wouldn’t have noticed or cared. All that mattered to you was the next thrust. The next entry into her body.

Every second you spent inside her was a sinful betrayal of your best friend. But you threw that knowledge aside, pushed it into some dark corner of your mind for your future self to deal with. All you wanted now was the next second, and the second after that. A dark part of you wanted it to last forever, claim her for your own, never let her go.

She orgasms suddenly, as though wanting intentionally to rouse you from your dark thoughts. Her body spasms and shakes around you as the pleasure overcomes her senses. She gasps and moans directly into your ear. Her pussy pulsates and tightens. She quivers. She shakes. The feel of her body’s reactions causes you to tremble in response.

So far she’d been the one in charge. She was the one that stopped you on your way to the bathroom. She was the one that pulled you into the stairwell and she was the one that kissed you.

It was your turn to take charge. It was your turn to stake your share in your sin.

You pull your shaft slowly from her body, and she lets tired legs fall to the floor. With hands on her hips you spin her around so her back is facing you. She catches on. She spreads her legs, her back arching deliciously as she presses her ass against your crotch. Needy. Wanton. Lustful. Consequences and the possibility of later regrets be damned.

You enter her again - this time she is tighter and wetter. A drink with an added shot. A drug laced with something stronger.

You fuck her roughly against the wall. She moans and gasps and quivers as she is taken, the wordless tumble of sounds leaving her mouth telling you that she was deriving as much wicked pleasure from this as you were.

You burn the image of her in your mind - torso pressed against the wall, expensive green silk dress a mere sash of fabric around her midsection, exposed breasts pushed against cold concrete, the round cheeks of her ass bouncing with each thrust of your hips. The wet, slick lips of her pussy, barely visible, are tightly wrapped around your cock with each exit and welcome it greedly with each entry.

Her dress seems oddly vibrant and colorful, despite the dim light of the stairwell. It is almost a teal color, or a dark jade green. Green like envy. Envy for a relationship another man enjoyed, one you never had. Green like jealousy - jealousy you knew you shouldn’t have felt, for a man who was your best friend, and for the long life full of love that was laid out before them.

She had the same feelings for you that you did for her.

She should have been yours.

The realization of it almost makes you go mad. It makes you angry.

You fuck her even more roughly, your cock pistoning in and out of her helpless pussy at an even quicker pace - and her moans and gasps rise in volume in response. Her walls tighten and pulsate around you once again, and you know she is on the verge of orgasm once again. You snake your right hand around her torso to find her right breast, finding it cold with the chill of the concrete wall. You find and pinch her stiff nipple. She lets out a long, needy moan as you take her body, have your way with it.

You feel your own orgasm beckoning. She tumbles over the edge first, becomes a wet, quivering, trembling mess only held up by the cock nailing her to the wall. You bury yourself as deep as you can into her body.

When you cum inside her nothing else exists. Not the sinful temptation, not the knowledge of knowing you were cumming inside your best friend’s soon-to-be fiance. And surely not guilt. That would come later.

For now all that existed was the hot wetness of the mess you were making inside her body with each spurt of hot semen you fire into the depths of her pussy. That was all that mattered. That was all that you gave a damn about.

You both stay there, frozen, for more than a few minutes as your bodies slowly recover from the intensity of your respective orgasms. The pleasure worms its way through every inch of your body, and when it winds down you are afraid of losing it. You want to chase it, hold on to that feeling forever, even as it left your body like grains of sand between the fingers of a desperately grasping fist.

You bury your head against the crook of her shoulder. You relish the feel of her warm body in your arms and the wet flesh between you that connected you to one another.

You close your eyes - a part of you never wanted to open them, for fear of what you would have to face when you did.

After you slip from her body you both spend a few awkward minutes in silence making yourselves look presentable. Reality returns, unwelcomed, to your world. You tuck yourself back into your pants. She pulls her dress back into place, wiping the wicked evidence of your sinfulness from her thighs with a tissue she retrieves from the purse she had carelessly discarded on the floor when she first pulled you into the stairwell.

She avoids your eyes. When she is ready to leave she faces the door to the bar’s bathroom hallway, her hand on the knob.

“Last chance,” she says, softly, barely loud enough to hear.

A few moments pass as she waits for a reply. Her hand on the doorknob trembles ever so slightly. Even in the dark of the dimly lit stairwell you can see her eyes are glistening with tears.

One of them falls down her cheek as she opens the door and returns to the bar. She is off to enjoy the rest of her evening, and the new life she would soon begin with her future husband. You let her go.

That’s what best friends did.

---

Author’s Note: oof.

Sad endings aside, I hope you all enjoyed this. I think the Dress series will be a regular thing from here on out. They’ll all (probably) be oneshots, and don’t worry, they definitely all won’t be as sad as this one. :)

#kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #bae suzy #suzy #male reader #pov smut #miss a #miss a suzy

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chaoticpuff17 · 4 years

Text

A Dangerous Game

part 19

masterlist

Hello darlings, just a reminder that this Namjoon is an asshole, and we do not stan his behavior. He is particularly asshole-ish in this chapter, my apologies. But I hope you all enjoy! --- chaotic puff

Namjoon awoke feeling happier than he had in a long time. He was sated, and he had the love of his life naked in his arms. Normally, Namjoon would have already been up and ready for work, but he wanted to be with Y/N when she awoke that morning. He almost felt as if she would vanish from his arms, as she was so prone to do, if he left her now. It felt almost like a dream to have her in his arms like this after so many long weeks of her disdain.

He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he looked down at her peacefully sleeping figure. He’d worn her out the night before taking her three more times before he’d been satisfied. He didn’t think he’d ever get enough of her. But he’d never have to. She’d promised him her life, her submission. His arm tightened around her possessively bringing forth a sleepy whine from the woman as she unconsciously snuggled closer to him, something she never would have done if she was awake.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, Namjoon reached over to the nightstand to grab his phone calling Miss In to request breakfast be served to them in bed this morning. His queen deserved the best after all, and he knew she would be sore after their activities the night before. He’d have Miss In run her a bath after breakfast, something to help sooth her aching body. He’d have to call Seokjin in as well. The pair hadn’t used any protection the night before, and it would be good to check on her health and see if she was on any form of intrauterine or implanted birth control as well as to discuss the possibility of a pregnancy if she wasn’t.

The idea of his child growing in her belly excited him. Namjoon had always wanted to be a father, and he was confident that Y/N would make a wonderful mother for his future heirs. Three children he thought to himself. Three little versions of them running around the estate. That would be perfect. Of course, so long as she wasn’t pregnant already, they would have to wait till she was more settled. She had promised to love him, to be his wife, but Namjoon knew better than to assume she would love him overnight. He would still have to woo her, and she, stubborn creature that she was, would not make it easy on him. But she would comply. Her precious Jackson’s life was on the line if she did not.

He had no problem keeping the man imprisoned as leverage. No, he wouldn’t hurt him. Namjoon was a man of his word after all, but Y/N, the poor thing, had never asked for his release, only his safety. That was her mistake though. Namjoon wasn’t one to add onto a deal when he did not have to.

Namjoon froze as he felt her stirring in his arms, groaning sleepily as she curled into his chest clinging to the last vestiges of sleep too hazy yet to realize where she was and in whose arms she was curled.

“Wake up, jagi.” He cooed gently moving her hair out of her face. “Breakfast will be here soon.”

Her eyes opened blearily, blinking the sleep from her eyes as she squinted at him in confusion. “Breakfast?” He hummed in amusement watching her try to fight off the sleep that threatened to pull her back under.

“Tired, jagi?” He asked lazily tracing the love bites that littered her neck and collar bones. The moment did not last long though, as the realization of her situation his not long after. She sat bolt upright clutching the covers to her chest staring at him with wide eyes as he sat up following her. “Good morning, jagi.” He chuckled in amusement kissing her shoulder, entranced by the little freckle there and ignoring the way she stiffened at the contact.

“Clothes?” Came the strangled question her voice still rough with sleep.

“I’ll grab us both something from the closet. Miss In will be here with breakfast soon.” He hummed pulling her in for a quick kiss before he left the bed.

She sat there faintly trembling in the morning light as she tried to process everything that had happened. The one thing that kept pulling her attention though was the soreness that radiated from between her legs. She winced remembering the activities of the night before. Namjoon was a conscientious, but he was by no means gentle. He craved her pleasure as well as her submission, and he was not afraid to take them both from her. After their first time, he’d been far more demanding, far more dominant, and she could feel the after affects all over her body from the bruises on her hips to the hickies littering her skin. She poked at one of the many marks experimentally only to wince when she found it particularly sensitive.

Namjoon returned a few minutes clad in a pair of low hung pajama bottoms with a soft sea green nightgown in his arms. She was grateful for the covering but annoyed when Namjoon insisted on slipping it onto her himself and protesting when she tried to leave the bed.

“Namjoon, I need to use the restroom.” She grumbled extricating herself from his arms. Was the man suddenly an octopus? Why did he have so many arms? It seemed like every time she removed one there was another to take its place keeping her trapped in his embrace.

He pulled her in for another kiss, this one far more demanding before he released her. “Hurry back.” He ordered gazing at her with such a loving expression that it made her feel physically ill.

She washed up quickly gazing at herself in the mirror. There were prominent dark circles under her eyes, a testament to both her harrowing day and her lack of sleep the night before. In the mirror she could see the full extent of the damage Namjoon had done to her body. The marks were a range of lighter red marks to far more aggressive bruises that shone an angry purple color. There wasn’t enough makeup in the world to cover these marks. She’d have to see what her options were for scarves and turtlenecks. She was not about to give him the satisfaction of walking around the estate with his marks displayed for the world to see. She had a feeling he would enjoy that far too much.

There was only so long she could hide in the bathroom though. She did stop in the closet on her way to pull out a long robe and a pair of panties to give herself an extra layer of protection.

Namjoon beckoned her back to the bed as soon as she emerged, pulling her back to lie against the pillows with him though he did give the robe she’d put on a look of distaste.

“We still need to talk about your punishment, jagi.” He murmured into her hair as his long fingers played with her own much smaller hands.

“Punishment?” She asked dread curling in her stomach.

“You knocked Jimin over the head, cut your ankle monitor, and fled the estate. I think a punishment is in order, don’t you?”

She froze. “I thought that was what last night was.” She murmured bitterly.

His hold on her tightened. His previously warm smile suddenly gone replaced with a cold stern look. “I seem to recall you being very pleased last night with my cock buried in that sweet little pussy of yours.” He growled slipping a hand through the folds of the robe to roughly grip her breast, brutally pinching the nipple. “I’m sure I can refresh your memory if you’ve forgotten.”

She squirmed pushing his hand away, and he let her, removing his hand to instead bring her face close to his. “You agreed to this, jagi.” He reminded his lips only a hair’s breath from her own.

“I know.” She whispered swallowing thickly.

“Our time together is not a punishment, jagi.” He whispered against her lips. “You’ll come to see that in time. I can give you a good life.” He murmured pressing his lips to hers. “I can give you the world.”

“So long as I never leave this house.” She scoffed pulling back.

“You can earn that privilege in time, but you and I both know you’re not ready for that. You bludgeoned a man.”

“Is Jimin okay?” She asked looking down at her hands guiltily.

“Jimin will be fine.” Namjoon waved off her concern dismissively. “He’s been sent out on assignment.”

“Like Jungkook.” She felt bitterness welling up in her throat.

“Like Jungkook.” He agreed saying no more on the topic.

It was a grateful break from the tension when Miss In came in leading a small group of maids to deliver a western style breakfast in bed.

“Sajangnim.” She bowed paying her respect to the master of the house. “Bu-in.”

“Thank you, Miss In.” Namjoon waved her off dismissively. “If you could return in an hour to draw a bath for the lady.”

“Yes, sajangnim.”

“And call for Dr. Kim to come.”

“Yes, sajangnim.” She bowed again before shooing out the maids to give the master and the lady of the house their privacy.

“Why is Seokjin coming?” She asked picking at her toast. She was incredibly angry with Jin for being part of Namjoon’s plan, for putting a chip in her neck like she was some sort of dog, and had no wish to see him.

Namjoon sipped at his coffee watching her carefully from the corner of his eye. “I’d like for him to take a look at you.”

“Why?” Her tone was sharp, layered with suspicion.

“Because I was rather rough with you, and we didn’t use any protection, jagiya.” He smirked into his cup of coffee watching as the color drained from her face.

“Oh, god.” She whimpered her head dropping into her arms.

“Of course, we’ll bring in a gynecologist to take a look at you another day, but for now Jin will do just to make sure you’re alright, and prescribe some birth control.” He spoke of it like it was nothing, but it was everything to her.

They hadn’t used any protection. Yes, the odds of her being pregnant was slim after only one night, but her mind was racing. When had her last period been? When was she due to ovulate? Could she have been pregnant?

“Of course, it wouldn’t be ideal for you to be pregnant now.” He mused. “You’re still not settled yet, but if you are you are.”

“I don’t want a baby.” She whimpered feeling bile rise up in her throat.

“Not yet at least.” He agreed. “It would be better to wait.”

“No, Namjoon.” She repeated her voice low and grave. “I don’t want a baby. Ever.”

Namjoon set down his cup and gave her an indulgent smile. “Of course, you want a baby.” He tutted. “Perhaps you’d be more settled with one.” He mused rethinking his decision to have Seokjin prescribe her birth control. As much as he knew she hated it, he did know her, and he knew she would never leave her child behind just as well as he knew a child would make it all the harder for her to run.

“No, Namjoon, I don’t.”

He chuckled darkly his smile turning from indulgent to something far more cold and sharp. “We will have a child, Y/N. An empire needs an heir, and you are my wife.”

“No.” She repeated her voice firm, unyielding. “I promised you I would be your wife. I promised you my love, and I can try even though the thought of you makes my skin crawl, but I did not promise you a child.”

“I’m afraid, my love, that you did agree to it. ‘Whatever you want’ where the words you used, if I recall.” He growled placing an kiss to the junction of her shoulder. “I would hate for anything to happen to dear Jackson just because you couldn’t comply with the terms of our agreement.”

Her blood froze in her veins. “You promised not to hurt him.” She pushed away from him looking at him with an almost wounded expression.

“And I’ll uphold my end of the bargain, so long as you keep yours.”

“You sick, bastard.” She hissed hands trembling as she restrained herself from throttling him. “You would force me to carry your spawn?” She spat glaring at him with renewed fire in her eyes. She would not bring a child into this house.

“I would not force you to do anything.” He refuted his jaw clenched as he tried to reign in his own temper. “You are my wife, and we will, in time, have children.”

“That certainly doesn’t sound like a choice to me.” She huffed getting up from the bed and walking away.

“Where are you going?” He called after her frustration coloring his tone.

“To take a bath!”

“You’ve barely touched your breakfast.”

She said nothing more, choosing instead to throw an obscene gesture over her shoulder instead as she disappeared into the bathroom.

part 20

#bts #bts fic #yandere bts #fanfic #namjoon #namjoon x reader #yandere namjoon #mafia namjoon #yandere #soft yandere #mafia #mafia au #dark romance #a dangerous game #rm x reader #rm #bts rm #bts namjoon

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druddigoon · 4 years

Note

bede and gloria; late night confessions

[it’s been a while since i worked on this, i tried to finish this to something ao3-worthy but the muse is just not comin ;_; didn’t quite get to the meat of your prompt tho it’s still at 1.5k words and full of drunk shenanigans!]

Bede doesn’t know how he got here.

There’s something digging into his side, uncomfortable and wet (a log, some part of him helpfully supplies, before his thoughts sink into oblivion) as he half-squats, half-slumps onto the peat. Bioluminescent mushrooms pulse like strings of faerie lights at the edges of his periphery; he closes his eyes and feels the pleasant hum of television static against his bones, loose-limbed and sluggish.

“Bede. Hey.” Someone’s standing him, shaking him. Glor-Gloria? What’s the champion doing here? She’d had more pressing obligations to take care of than visiting him, right? Unless she was…

He sits bolt upright. “Training.”

“Hey. Bede no, you’re in no state to train.” She’s grabbing his shoulders, so irritably he shrugs her hands off. “Okay, fine. Haterenne, help me please?”

“Hissssss.”

“I know, it’s my fault, you can hate me for this later. Could you teleport him to Opal before he pukes on me?”

“I won’t puke on you.” He attempts to stand up, wobbles, and relocates onto the log, looking up at her like he only intended to shift his seat all along. “Just...don’t say a word of this to Opal, she doesn’t know I’m rende...rendezvu...meeting you for training at night.”

Gloria makes a face like a goldeen, open-mouthed and slack-faced, before reeling herself in, blowing her bangs out of the way in exasperation. “What’re we going to do then?”

“Train.” The log is awfully comfortable.

She throws her hands up, stalking a ways away into the undergrowth. “Fine, you win. Hatterene, he’s yours now.”

“Rene.”

“This’ll wear off,” he insists after her. “Besides, we still have an entire night. It’s only--”

--Three in the morning.

He knows this because it’s a routine ingrained into his internal body clock, reinforced by Sylveon sitting at his bedside and repeatedly probing him in the cheek. She dodges the togekiss sleep mask he flings at her, mewling incessantly from her safe space behind his rarely-used study desk as he fumbles the blanket off himself.

Check surroundings. Judging by the iron klefki wards she hung in front of her door every night, Opal’s asleep across the hall; woman can sure sleep like the dead when she wants to. It’s quiet, empty. The portobellos growing on the kitchen walls ebb with the faint chartreuse of early morning. He pulls on his gear as quickly and quietly as possible, recalling Sylveon into her ball before climbing out his bedroom window.

Despite most of the Ballonlea population being asleep, the Glimwood Tangle is teeming with activity: impidimps chittering from the trees, the echoing croons of hatterene in the distance, a male indeedee wandering around collecting swathes of amanita--most likely for some courtship ritual. He’s been gym leader for nearing six months now, and they no longer saw him as an intruder on their turf. The oranguru that always meditates underneath a wisteria-choked tree barely gives him the side eye as he passes.

At the edge of the faerie ring, in their designated meeting location, he finds the Champion resting between the boughs of a tree.

She’s already noticed him, of course--squirrelly, quick-eyed and observant, Challenger Bede had scribbled in his league-issue notepad, where he kept track of rivals and how to counter them--and he watched out of the corner of his eye as she made her way down, landing like it’s all she’s known, to fall and pick herself up.

“The usual?” He prompts.

“Nope.” Something clinks in her tired leather bag as she straightens herself. “I was thinking of having a battle today. Haven’t had one outside a boring league stadium in weeks.”

He makes a noise at the back of his throat reserved for when the region’s champion calls million-dollar, painstakingly designed entertainment buildings “boring”. Then again, Gloria never cared much for the stark geometry of commercial buildings.

“But first. I brought something.” After rifling through her bag, she produces a jar of clear fluid with more flourish than she ever showed in her league battles, handing it to him.

He unscrews the lid for a whiff and immediately regrets it. “Don’t tell me you smuggled alcohol all the way from Wyndon.”

“Aren't you legal?”

“Yes, I am. You aren’t.” Hatterene take him if Opal caught him in a hangover the next morning. At least Gloria had her own condo.

“It’s only illegal if they catch you.” She replies, and Bede would agree wholeheartedly on any other day, if not for his desperate need to retain the vestiges of self-control slipping through his fingertips. Before he could protest, she takes the jar, tips it back to take a sip, then returns it to him.

He supposes he’s not a stranger to alcohol. While Rose never greeted him in-person, Bede had attended fancy meet-ups with potential patrons on behalf of the man (Galar loves a good rags-to-riches story, Oleana always told him) and let himself enjoy a flute or two of champagne on corporate dime.

One sip. Surely nothing would come of one sip.

“Alright,” he relents, “I suppose it’ll take more than a--

--Couple swallows in and he’s starting to feel lightheaded, the tips of his fingers strangely numb like that one time he accidentally stuck them into Gardevoir’s moonblast. Damn Opal and her “fairy boot camp”, he could bet on his favorite soap opera that no other trainer got their leg tied to their pokemon and forced to three-leg a batt--

“Drink.” Gloria orders, pushing the empty mason jar she refilled with water up to his lips. It tasted slightly viscous when he drank and...how did she get this anyways? Was it from her golisopod? Was he drinking bug spit?

“Bede. About your. Uh.”

“We’ve disgus...discussed this to death already. I didn’t mean. Anything with the finalist speech. It was the heat of the moment, I was focused, and you were all that was on my mind--”

“--So you were thinking about me then?”

“What?”

“Anyways,” she continues uneasily, “Could you recall Hatterene? She looks like she wants to tear me to shreds with her mind.”

“Oh.” He glances back and, sure enough, Hatterene is right behind him, every strand of hair bristling with psychic energy. “Hattie, behave. You’re better than this.”

Hatterene trains the brunt of her attention to him, and there’s the low before a tidal wave, thrumming in his skull like a shotgun blast before she presses her pokeball and enters it with a huff.

He hears an audible exhale from Gloria in the ensuing silence. “I haven’t heard you call her ‘Hattie’ in a long time.”

“Old habit.” She’s long outgrown it now, but he still remembers her as a hatenna small enough to fit within the cradle of his arms, the outlier of the batch Macro Cosmos had donated to his orphanage. Most likely a breeding reject--too smart for her own good, too ill-behaved and unruly to be championship material--because nobody liked a pawn that didn’t follow orders. He knew how it went. “My younger self’s nicknaming skills left much to be desired.”

They’ve come a long way since then.

“That’s sweet,” she says, and normally Bede would bristle at a challenge to his dignity, but today his limbs are sluggish and the bottomless pit of hatred he’d often found himself visiting seemed strangely empty.

"You were friends since you were young," Gloria clarifies, "And she obviously cares for you a lot--I've heard most hatterenes are as misanthropic as psychics come. It's nice that you've managed to keep it strong through your gym challenge."

"Gloria..."

"What's done is done though. I'm Champion, he's a researcher, and you're drunk out of your mind." When Bede sputters in response, she tips the jar of water in his general direction. He's forced to catch it so she doesn't spill the entirety of the contents on his clothes.

Definitely bug spit. But if this is the fix to the pressure building behind his eyes then he may as well take it. Even if that damn taste--

--is not at all what he expected: medicine-grade and overpowering, a hyper beam to his sinuses so powerful it forces him to tears. If this thing is safe to drink, the only reason would be because no bacteria would bear to live in it. He manages to swallow purely by willpower, refusing to spit it out in front of Gloria; whatever face he saves is instantly destroyed when she bursts out laughing at his expression.

“I’m sorry,” she says, not sorry at all. Bede stares intensely at a cluster of mushrooms metres away and prays it’s too dark to catch the blood rushing to his face. “I thought-I thought you’d take it better. Maybe I overestimated you.”

“And should I be under the assumption you’re a heavyweight drinker?”

Gloria shrugs in lieu of an answer. “Leon always brought some kind of new wine or liquor when he visited home, and shared some of it with Hop. Hop shared some of it with me.”

Unbelievable. And to think Leon was lauded as a children’s role model. Bede resists the urge to rub away a phantom headache.

#drudwrites #prompt fill #bederia #bede pokemon #gloria pokemon

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ask-comrade-kuvira · 3 years

Text

You are listening to Earth National Radio.

We are pleased to present this very special announcement from the Great Uniter herself, Comrade Chairman Kuvira.

Good evening, people of the Earth nation. It is I, Kuvira, and I have come to speak to you tonight not merely as a general, a revolutionary, and a patriot, but as a scholar and a teacher of revolutionary science. A subject we must never forget lest we succumb to baser emotions, the project of our liberation - of the world’s liberation - is a work of science and reason. Our labor of love is also a labor of history. We are not merely artists sitting in front of a blank canvas - we are the auteurs of a delicate and ancient struggle. The struggle I am referring to, of course, is the class struggle.

In all of history, we have striven to overcome our fellow man in the name of our class interests - representatives of our communities, our faiths, our cultures, and even of our prestigious families. All people in history have understood intuitively that for a nation to “thrive” it is necessary for that nation to steal and to exploit - to take from others. And whomever you take from, you give back to your class in equal measure, returned to palatial estates that grow in size and power with the wealth they extract from others. The ultimate expression of this power, the ultimate goal of all who have partaken of this historic struggle, is known as the rule of Government.

For most of history, a cycle has prevailed over the fate of all people. The cycle of dynasties, of the rise and fall of empires, and of the destruction of old land and the sowing of new. Long-dead places where ruins stand were once the province of power - and with time, they, too, did succumb and crumble. And all along this cycle has been characterized by the same thing: the class struggle, the rule and the conquest of man by man.

But in our modern era, a miracle has occurred. We have developed a power our forebears could only dream of: the awesome power of industrial civilization. Suddenly, the productive forces that were once the domain of precious few craftsmen and laborers have become the domain of the merchant class - those who live by trade and commerce. To own factories is to own the means of advancing every aspect of society, of annihilating Want and Need where one wills, and of accumulating incredible wealth. This ownership class, these bourgeoisie - they are the masters of our industrialized world.

Does one require proof? Look at the other nations of the world. A hundred years ago, the Great War set aflame and burnt to ashes the last vestiges of the ancient orders. The Fire Nation, ruled by a feudal emperor, could only resolve the contradictions between its nascent bourgeoisie class and the aristocratic class by joining them in an alliance against the other nations of the world.

Ask yourselves, what did it mean that the Fire Nation discovered such powerful technology before the rest of the world? I’ll tell you: it meant that there came to be in the Fire Nation a class of wealthy shippers, owners of fabulous navies that could move against the winds and currents with the power of fire, whose commercial exploitations around the world brought wealth and power back to the Fire Nation. Make no mistake, this is the development responsible for the rise of the Fire Nation. And this development introduced in turn a struggle for power, between those traditionally powerful aristocrats - and the newly powerful bourgeoisie.

This conflict could only be resolved one of two ways: one class destroys the other and claims the Fire Nation for itself - in the process tearing their nation asunder. Or, the two classes join as one, under the aegis of the Fire Lord, and resolve as allies to plunder the rest of the world together. And this latter case is what came to pass.

The resulting Great War all but annihilated the old order, and ironically the Phoenix Lord did not rise from the ashes, but the rule of the bourgeoisie did. The Air Nomads and their ancient order - destroyed, represented now by a reclusive and valuable colonial estate in Republic City harbor. The Water Tribes - driven to the brink, now ruled by Varrick Global Industries. The Fire Nation - ostensibly defanged, but preserving all of its commercial attachments to its far-flung colonies, and now sitting comfortable, distant, and aloof among its ill-gotten gains.

And what was the Earth Kingdom left with? A pathetic government that preserved the status of a corrupt aristocracy at the expense of the entire nation’s self-determination. For the past two hundred years, our nation has been beaten down into the mud. And even when the Great War ended, no reparations came and no justice was forthcoming. Our people had been taken into slavery and brutalized by the merciless, exploitative colonizers of the Fire Nation, and the reward our people had for their diligence was to be forced to allow the Fire Nation settlers to continue their business. How many thousands of Earth Kingdom families were forced out of their homes, keys still in hands, to make way for Fire Nation colonizers? How many of those Fire Nation colonizers ever paid back what they had stolen? As shameful as it is, this is our history. It seems only too fitting the final Earth monarch was killed in her throne room by an unhinged maniac.

However, the antidote to the shame of our nation is not the same vulgar pride the foreign imperialists cultivated. It is humility, for through humility do we recognize the true cause of this shame. In fact, the Fire Nation is not composed of a superior breed of people. That conceit is nothing more than the arrogance of petty conquerors. And the fall of our Queen was no reflection on our people: it was merely a reflection of the decrepit standing of her waning, soon-to-be-irrelevant class.

Look at how the foreign nations took responsibility when she was killed, and anarchy ruled our fates. All they cared about was lining their pocketbooks, and maintaining their precious business relationships. The richest woman in the Earth Kingdom, Suyin Beifong, elected to recline within her metal domes to continue profiting off of trade with the outside world. None of these events are rooted in anything supernatural, or uncanny, but in the simple, base reality of the historical class struggle. It was the class struggle that placed the Earth nation in this position, and that is why our true struggle is not against the people of the Fire Nation, the Water Tribes, or the colonized territories, but against the bourgeoisie.

It is the international bourgeoisie that we stand against, ultimately. After all, it was the international bourgeoisie that sought to use the fall of the Earth Kingdom as an opportunity to crowbar in their own business interests. They were happy to support the pacification of the Earth Kingdom insofar as the minerals they sought kept flowing into the factories spread throughout the colonized territories. Any detail was perfectly irrelevant to them as long as it did not affect the bottom line. President Raiko, Varrick, the White Lotus - all content with the project of our liberation while it seemed they could profit from it. Suyin Beifong, alone, opposed it - perhaps out of distaste for a little competition.

Keep in your mind that the moment we demonstrated the remotest inkling that we sought the liberation of our people for our own good, their knives were out. All of a sudden, they spoke of a Second Great War, of regime change, of the “good” of the “global community.” The only good they spoke of, my friends and my comrades, was their own good. The good of the international bourgeoisie.

It is this enemy we struggle against, and this enemy over which we shall triumph as a united, liberated, and decolonized people. We are all out of time for tonight, but please tune in tomorrow, when I will be answering questions that listeners like you would like to Call In over the radio. After all, we now have electricity and telephone service here in Ba Sing Se, the proud achievement of our comrades at the newly nationalized Ba Sing Se Telecom & Electrics Utility Corporation. Why not treat yourself to a little of it?

#ask me #ask comrade kuvira #ask kuvira #lok #legend of korra #rp blog #ask blog #rp #context post

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gemsofthegalaxy · 3 years

Text

i saw a post that was like "yes im a hypocrite because i am villain stan but i Hate Matthias" and i find it funny bc im (usually) the opposite?

it has spurred yet another round ofquestioning my own tastes. Plot twist, i don't usually like villains. My favourite character for a long time was Steve "I dont like bullies and I would move mountains for my best friend" Rogers (pre endgame, obvi, dont touch me). So umm Intense, powerful, dominant or domineering men arent reaaallllyyy my thing (again, Usually.

Like if im REALLY honest the Darkling doesn't do much for me- when i was reading the book, i was very intrigued when it seemed like he might actually be an ally to Alina, but with an edge to him. Then when he went full evil i was like "Sigh. Yeah. I'm disappointed but not at all surprised, I mean his name is the Darkling for gods sake"

And yet..... I Like Matthias. Or, at least, I want to like Matthias, more than I want to like the Darkling. Note, i haven't read SOC yet so my opinions might change but its more about his character type

I should take the time to say- I know I dont Need to dissect my likes and dislikes, and being too introspective is actually probably a bad thing but i also.... need to dissect my likes and dislikes ughh lmao.

Anyway, I wonder if its not based on how much power the character ACTUALLY has? Like. If a man has too much Actual, Social power over a woman I am squicked and dislike it. However if he's a dick but their power imbalance is not as skewed, or if he's ill-informed, raised to be an ass and could get Better (i love me a jerk w a heart of gold), that's more likely to be something I like?

Because other Asshole Men I have liked are like, Draco Malfoy, with Hermione. he has some power over her for sure, he's of the oppressive class etc, but hes not Voldemort nor an adult or teacher/mentor and she is Smarter than him so it feels a bit more even? And then Damien from the Bright Sessions, who does have literal power over people because he can essentially influence their decisions (which I do sometimes like at a darker level tbh), but I also like the idea of him being a jerkass with Limits, the vestiges of a Moral Compass and the potential to Get Better. And, he might have power at that individual level, but he's, again, not some rich CEO or teacher.

Also, I will say, sometimes just the presence of an alternative character more typical to my likes is enough to turn me off the potential bad boy. For instance, hh i just Cant honestly truthfully get fully into Zutara (and tbh Zuko ISNT as... dark as many of the others on the list? He has More softness than most anyway, especially as time goes on) because. Well, Aang is right there and he's sweet and funny and they're best friends and Katara does like him back lmao so as much as I am like "yeah i can see the appeal in zutara and i like it well enough"... at the end of the day, it's Kataang for me

And i guess ultimately... that's the thing. No two characters are exact copies, so my relationship to each and every character will be different, even if there are trends and predictors i can use, sometimes you just latch onto something even if its not your norm. I still like to think about myself and my relationship to characters because thats part of fandom that brings me joy/i cant help myself tbh but. Yah. Anywayyyy

#personal

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dudeandduchess · 5 years

Note

Your writings are honestly so fun to read XD its like watching a tv series instead cause I can visualise it so easily! Can I request an nsfw iguro obanai x female reader? I really liked the scenario of the one where rengoku proposed to (y/n) and them getting married so I'd really love to read something like that again ^-^ thank you so much for your hard work.

Ahh thank you so much! I’m so flattered that you think my works are easy to visualise! And of course bby, you definitely can. Hope you like it! I’m sorry if this one is a bit angsty tho; I’ve been so tired as of late that I can’t muster up any fluffy content. :(

***

Iguro Obanai x F!Reader: Proposal (NSFW Scenario)

“If you’re going to stay, you may as well make yourself useful,” Iguro snapped irately as his heterochromatic eyes flitted over his lounging lover. She had barged into his home as if she owned it, and he could blame no one but himself for his current predicament.

It was all because of his stupid mouth that she had started treating his home as hers; and was also the reason why she kept urging him to pop the certain question that she’d long been waiting for.

Of course, she kept pushing him in not so many words; which grated on his nerves even more.

But kicking her out was beneath him. He might have been a bastard, but he wasn’t that much of a bastard.

From her place on Iguro’s futon, (Y/n) popped another slice of pear into her mouth, before quirking an eyebrow at her lover. “I’m already being useful, Obanai. I’m warming the futon for you.”

The Snake Hashira rolled his eyes so hard at that, that he thought his irises would never return to their proper places. Her response was so straightforward and so uniquely (Y/n); it made him wonder why he had even fallen for a woman such as her?

She was easy on the eyes, yes, but her attitude left a lot to desire. She was stubborn and childish without even trying, and she was also hotheaded like him. So he wondered once more: why in the world was he with her?

And, as if she knew where his thoughts had gone, (Y/n) sat upright and sent him a beaming smile; one so warm and genuine that he swore that he could feel the sun shining down on him.

Right. He initially fell for her because of that smile.

And the rest… well, he also came to love those little quirks of hers.

He just didn’t appreciate it when she turned her mouth against him. Yes, he loved it when she sucked on his cock, but having her spout such nonsense from those same sinful lips was something he considered a double-edged sword.

He couldn’t have one without the other.

“No, you wench-“ Iguro couldn’t even finish his sentence, because (Y/n) immediately cut him off.

“Watch your mouth, Obanai. Unless you want to be celibate for the rest of your life.”

Not one to be outdone, Iguro quirked his own eyebrows at (Y/n), then spouted the most ill-thought comeback his brain had ever formulated, “How can we have children if I’m going to be celibate?”

At that, (Y/n)’s thunderous expression instantly morphed into excitement. She even sat upright — which caused her to knock her plate of pears onto the tatami floor. “Children?! Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”

Wide-eyed and confused, the Snake Hashira nervously gulped, before averting his gaze from his ecstatic lover.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry her; his reluctance was all because he still hadn’t asked her mother for her blessing on his intended proposal.

Case in point: he may have been a bastard, but he still had respect for traditions.

“W- What the hell are you saying?” Iguro stammered, all while trying to wrack his brain for possible outs for the shit he had just started.

“Children? MARRIAGE? The thing couples do after being together for a long time? The ceremony that gives me the right to half of your property, and vice versa?” Even to her own ears, (Y/n) sounded incredulous and mildly miffed.

“I wasn’t implying anything, (Y/n).” As soon as the words left Iguro’s mouth, he instantly regretted them. Hell, he wanted to be mute so badly at that moment.

(Y/n)’s eyes widened in a mix of shock and anger, as her eyebrows furrowed together. All the while, her mouth set itself into a deep scowl that Iguro was sure would frighten even Kibutsuji himself. She looked so thunderous that it didn’t take him long to know, that he had to tread carefully if he still wanted to live.

Or if he still wanted to have (Y/n) as his lover.

“So you don’t intend on marrying me? Not at all, Obanai?”

The raven-haired man didn’t move a muscle. And that was the worst decision he had ever made, because (Y/n)’s crestfallen expression was enough to make his chest tighten with guilt.

“Get out,” The young woman whispered softly.

“But this is my-”

“I SAID GET OUT!”

“Why are you even so mad?”

Silence answered Iguro’s question, which made his guilt fester even more at his chest. And when he saw the first glimmer of a tear on (Y/n)’s cheek, he knew he’d fucked up.

It was either he ruined the surprise and told her everything, or he ruined their relationship and singlehandedly pushed six years down the drain.

Of course, he chose the lesser of two evils; not compliantly, of course.

“You idiot. I wanted to ask you after I talked to your mother.” Heterochromatic irises flitted skittishly to and from (Y/n), as she tried to wipe her tears with the backs of her hands.

Sure enough, that got her attention.

So, Iguro continued, “I didn’t want to ask you without her blessing-“

Abruptly, before he could even brace himself for the impact, (Y/n) threw her arms around him and practically tackled him to the floor. He landed on his ass in a somewhat upright position, only to get pinned down by his lover.

(Y/n)’s dainty hands were pressed roughly against his shoulders, before she lifted the left one and pulled down the bandages around his mouth.

“You’re the idiot.” Her words made no sense, but Iguro couldn’t refute them, as she leaned down and claimed his lips in a harsh kiss. She even went as far as to bite down on his bottom lip, which effectively fried a couple more of her lover’s brain cells.

Abruptly, (Y/n) made quick work of his clothes; insistently grabbing at the cloth and hastily unbuttoning the garment from his body.

Normally, she wasn’t that… eager, but Iguro could feel her happiness, and the faint traces of her anger in her movements, so he let her have her way with him.

“You’re a gods-damned idiot!” (Y/n) slurred at him, and he was about to hurl a sarcastic remark back at her, when he finally realized that she still had tears streaming down her face.

And instantly, all the fight left him at that sight.

He’d knowingly hurt her without thinking what the full extent of his words could do to her; and, dare he admit it, he felt like the lowest form of scum.

“I… (Y/n)…” Iguro whispered quietly. He couldn’t even muster up the tone to speak properly, because his guilt weighed on him that heavily. Hell, he couldn’t even get himself to apologize properly.

So, he did the next best thing…

He lifted his hands up and cupped her wet cheeks, then proceeded to wipe her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. And, in a move so tenderly affectionate, he pulled her down to his face and gently pressed his lips to hers.

(Y/n), despite the heaviness in her chest, succumbed to him entirely. She pliantly opened her mouth to his imploring tongue, and when the first real taste of him hit her, she practically melted against him.

Both of them were so enamored in each other that they didn’t notice that Kaburamaru had slithered away to give them privacy.

And before both of them knew it, they were rid of their clothes, with (Y/n) still straddling Iguro’s hips.

And with her hands anchored firmly to her lover’s chest, she slid down a few inches and rubbed the Snake Hashira’s erect cock between her wet folds.

A groan ripped free from Obanai’s lips, as his eyes screwed themselves shut in bliss. She already felt so amazing against him; he couldn’t wait to feel her tight walls clenching around him.

The pair was silent as they moved against each other’s bodies; insistent hands wandering every so often to tease and caress. Iguro, in particular, let his hands linger on (Y/n)’s breasts— pinching her nipples between his fingers, and playing with them to elicit quiet moans from her.

While (Y/n) dug her nails into her lover’s skin, to leave red crescent-shaped marks along the pale canvas. Every time she left her marks on him, he would let out pleasured sounds that were a cross between a hiss and a moan; which didn’t fail to make the short woman smug.

And with a testy smile on her face, (Y/n) lifted her hips up and slipped Iguro’s erection inside her waiting cunt. He filled her so nicely that she had to stop to keep herself from already cumming.

When the imminence of her orgasm subsided, the (h/c) haired woman began to move once more; working her lover’s cock so pleasurably that he had no choice but to close his eyes and grip her hips tightly.

They stayed like that for a while; with (Y/n) getting particularly rough when she felt herself on the precipice of her orgasm.

She angled her hips differently so she could hit that one spot inside her.

And after that, it didn’t take long for her cunt to tighten around Obanai’s cock. Her walls pulsed around him, which added to his pleasure.

He could taste the first vestiges of his release coming, but when he felt (Y/n) slide off of him, his eyes snapped open in a mix of disbelief and mild irritation.

“What the fuck?”

“You don’t get to cum, Obanai. You made me cry.”

“I said I was going to marry you, wasn’t I?” The Snake Hashira protested.

(Y/n), with a playful smile playing at her lips, answered, “Really? You never said those words.”

That was it for Iguro. He just wanted to cum, damn it, so he swallowed his pride and popped the damned question— as if it was the magic words she had been waiting for, “Will you marry me? That’s a yes, right? Now make me fucking cum.”

A laugh escaped the young woman’s lips at that, and she shook her head as she got down on all fours to take her lover’s cock in her mouth.

She then made him cum… all night long.

NOTE: Hello, everyone! I am so sorry for just getting to your requests now. I still have four pending in my ask, and still have Chapter 2 of “Love Her” to finish today, but I’m just so tired from my “son”’s birthday party. So I think I’ll just post it tomorrow. And when I say “son”, I mean my 1 year-old French Bulldog. Thank you for being very patient with me!

#iguro obanai #iguro obanai x reader #obanai iguro x reader #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba iguro #kny iguro #demon slayer #demon slayer iguro #anon #ask #kny request #kny scenario #jen writes

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worryinglyinnocent · 4 years

Text

Fic: The Dead of Night

AU-gust Day Fourteen: Vampire AU Fandom: Stargate Universe Pairing: Nicholas Rush x Gloria Rush

Rated: T

Content Warning: Blood, vampirism, cancer mention.

Summary: Nick reflects on his and Gloria’s lives since she became a vampire to save her life.

Note: This uses the vampire mythos from the short-lived TV series Moonlight.

The Dead of Night

Nick waited until the last vestiges of sunlight had vanished beyond the horizon before closing the curtains and switching on the lights. He wasn’t surprised at how quickly he had made the transition to nocturnal activity; he’d never been one for consistent sleep patterns at the best of times, and Gloria’s long illness had just exacerbated that. Now it simply made sense for him to be awake when she was awake.

He made the ten-step journey down into the cellar, listening to the comforting hum of the chest freezer. His breath curled into mist as he opened it, and he had to smile at the sight that met him. One would have expected vampires to sleep ramrod straight with their arms crossed over their chests like in classic Hammer horror movies, but Gloria was curled up in the foetal position with one arm flung over her face just like she’d slept when she was alive.

Nick shook himself. Gloria was alive. Not in the same way as previously, perhaps, but alive, nonetheless.

He reached into the freezer and stroked her arm where it was covering her face.

“The sun’s down, Glo. Time to get up.”

Gloria gave a catlike hiss, swiping at his hand, and when she sat up and opened her eyes, Nick could see the irises pale and silvery, pupils like pinpricks. Her mouth curled up in a snarl, fangs fully out, and Nick stumbled backwards, his heart pounding. Even though he knew that Gloria would never attack him consciously, there was always that undercurrent of fear when she first woke up thirsty, and Nick hated it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her face was human again now and looking very guilty, although her eyes were still too pale, and her fangs were still pinching her bottom lip. “I’m just thirsty.”

Nick went over to the fridge in the corner and took out a blood bag – prime A-negative. He brought it over to Gloria as she got out of the freezer and shut the lid, perching on it beside her as she drank.

“You’re running low.”

Gloria nodded. “I know. I’ll have to go and see my man at the hospital tonight. Do you think anyone notices all the blood bags going missing?”

“Well, if they do, I don’t think that they would suspect vampires.”

Up until a few months ago, Nick himself would have disputed the existence of vampires. There were times even now when he wondered if his and Gloria’s current lifestyle was all the result of an exhausted fever dream, and he would wake up in the hospital by her bedside, nothing having changed.

They had almost accepted fate. They had almost accepted that Gloria wasn’t going to survive her second battle with cancer and that she was entering her last days; they had almost accepted that she wasn’t going to leave the hospital. Almost, but not quite. Although neither of them had said anything, they were both hoping for a last-minute miracle, some kind of reprieve that would reach them against all the odds and save them from oncoming heartbreak. Nick was a firm believer in science to the exclusion of all else; he had never been a spiritual man and he did not pray for deliverance as Gloria did, but that didn’t stop him from hoping for something, anything, however inexplicable it might be.

That inexplicable reprieve had come at three in the morning on a moonless night. Nick wasn’t asleep. The chair beside Gloria’s bed was too uncomfortable for sleep at the best of times, and for the past few nights he had been scared to close his eyes in case Gloria slipped away whilst he was asleep.

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” he had muttered in response to her gentle chastising that he needed rest. Gloria had snorted.

“No, you can sleep when I’m dead.” The gallows humour had been funnier than it had any right to be.

On that fateful night, Gloria wasn’t asleep either. The chemo had messed up her circadian rhythm so much that night and day were all much of a muchness to her, and she slept when she could and stayed awake when she couldn’t.

The lights were off, and they were just looking at each other in the gloom when the porter had come in.

“I know a way to make it better,” he had said. “But it comes at a price.”

The subsequent conversation had lasted almost till daybreak, whereupon the porter had returned to his home in the cold morgue drawers and Nick and Gloria had been left wondering if the discussion had really just happened, if vampires really did exist and if one had just offered to save Gloria’s life.

It had been a difficult decision to come to, and not one taken lightly. Ultimately they both wanted more time together, even if that time would be spent in an eternally nocturnal world.

The first week after Gloria’s turning had been the worst. She was constantly thirsty, and the house was far too warm for her; in the end she’d had Nick lock her in the cellar to stop her going for his own throat out of insane greed. Since then, though, they’d settled into a now-familiar routine, and everything was almost the way it was before – aside from their life being conducted entirely under the cover of darkness.

Well. Almost everything. Nick sipped his coffee, watching Gloria slip away into the night to get her fix from the hospital, the cool box swinging ominously by her side.

Gloria was alive, and more than that – provided she stayed within her limits, she would never die. She was locked in time now, but he, Nick was moving onward. He was still going to lose her to time eventually. Before, she had not had enough time. Now, she had far too much. Or he had far too little.

He was still staring out of the window when she came back, the cool box obviously heavier. They would have to move soon before their strange habits attracted too much attention, but they had already been through so much upheaval over the past few months that neither of them could stomach the thought of more just yet.

“Hey.” Gloria came into the kitchen having deposited the blood safely in her fridge. “Have you been sitting here the whole time. It’s not like you to get lost in thought. Although…” She came and sat beside him, taking his hand in her much colder one. “You have been in a world of your own a lot more lately. What’s wrong, Nick? What are you thinking about?”

Nick sighed, squeezing her hand. “Me, you, us. The logistics of our life now.”

“I know it’s not exactly what we planned…” Gloria tailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.

“I don’t regret it,” Nick said. “I’d rather have you alive like this than not alive at all. I’m just not sure that I thought through some of the implications at the time.”

“Like what?”

Their conversations on the topic had been fairly comprehensive, and Nick knew that they had discussed his current misgiving more than once. He just hadn’t paid it as much mind as he ought to have done.

He skirted Gloria’s question, looking her steadfastly in the eyes – now back to their usual colour, no trace of the eerily pale silver of her hunger.

“Glo, if I asked, would you turn me?”

Gloria looked at him for a long time, searching his face for something, although Nick did not know what she was looking for, nor whether she found it there.

“If that was what you truly wanted then yes, I would,” she said eventually. “I know where your train of thought is going, and don’t think that I don’t share it. Being gifted with so much time having had so little left, well, it alters your perception of it. I can’t get used to the inevitability of losing you now any more than you could get used to the inevitability of losing me before.”

Nick nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I keep trying to talk myself out of it. Hell, I keep thinking that this is all just a strange kind of wishful thinking on my part and I’ll wake up and you’ll be back in the hospital. But when it comes down to it, I don’t know what I have to lose.”

“You do,” Gloria pointed out. “We went over it at great length and in great detail with William before he turned me.”

“Exactly. I know all that. I’ve seen you change. I’ve lived through these last few months with you, and I still can’t think why I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of, well, forever with you.”

Gloria brought his hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“Ask me again tomorrow,” she whispered.

The routine continued for the next fortnight, a strange kind of Arabian Nights tale.

“Gloria, will you turn me?” “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

Her acquiescence was so sudden that Nick thought he had misheard her.

“You will?”

Gloria nodded. “I think you’ve stuck with the notion long enough to really want it. Are you ready?”

She brought his hand up to her lips again, this time hovering over the pulse point in his wrist. Nick could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he nodded.

The pain of her fangs sinking into his skin was sharp and blinding, like a lightning flash, and Nick gritted his teeth through it, squeezing his eyes tight shut. He felt warm wetness against his lips, and he knew that Gloria was offering her own blood to complete the transformation. Salty and metallic, he didn’t really notice the taste as he began to feel the change – veins stagnating, body cooling, the unquenchable hunger rising up…

“Nick, my love?”

He opened his eyes. In the darkness, suddenly everything seemed sharper. He was ridiculously thirsty, and he could feel the points of fangs, new and awkward, in his mouth. Gloria’s hands were warm in his for the first time in months.

“Hi, Glo.”

She smiled, and Nick smiled back. It might not be the best or easiest path they could have chosen, but they had each other, and they had forever, and that was enough.

#SGU #Nicholas Rush #Gloria Rush #Nick/Gloria #vampire AU #AU-gust #Worry does AU-gust #vampire cw #blood cw #cancer cw #Fic: The Dead of Night

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rhythmsectionbros · 5 years

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You Should Have Been There | a present QUEEN fic

current/present era

not shippy but multi-friendship Brian/Roger/John

PG-13 ~for language

words: 8.4k

summary: Jim Beach’s call was unexpected, perturbing Brian’s & Roger’s preparations for the coming 2020 European Tour, but it did pique their curiosity –or how an unexpected change is going to disturb their perfectly planned coming months (for the context of the fic, they didn’t talk to John in years -yes, i refuse to believe this is true irl but let’s say in fiction, it is!)

warnings: mention of death and fatal illness **if you are uncomfortable with such topics even in the world of fiction, please don’t read it**

A/N: sooooo my first ‘long’ fic (and likely my last!). This is, of course, 10000% fiction and I feel very insecure about it for plenty of reasons –you will understand when you will read it. In advance, I am very sorry if I offend anyone! AND THANK YOU TO MY LOVELY BETA ♥

you can read the fic on Ao3

and here a playlist i made on youtube to go with the fic

10th December, 3:20 p.m.

“Maybe it’s about a second movie?”

“For fuck’s sake Brian. I hope not!”

There is a ‘ding’ before the doors open and the two men walk out of the elevator towards Jim ‘Miami’ Beach’s office. His call earlier that week was unexpected, perturbing Brian’s & Roger’s preparations for the coming European Tour, but it did pique their curiosity. The remnant snow on their shoulders melting, Brian brushes the rest out of his white hair while Roger removes his scarf and rubs his nose with his thumb and forefinger, groaning quietly.

“It is Disney we are talking about Rog,” Brian continues and casts a glance over his bandmate who is still wearing sunglasses even in December. “They can do whatever they want. And without our approval.”

Roger rolls his eyes and snorts.

After a few more steps (and a few more cuss words from the drummer), the two men catch sight of Miami pacing back and forth in the corridor leading to his office. The producer spots them. “Hello, guys!”

“Hi Jim,” Brian answers with a smile, offering his hand, and Roger does the same.

“Hello, Jim.”

“Glad you could come even with the bad weather. Surprising for an early December, right? I know this invitation is unplanned but it’s always a pleasure to see you both.” There is an unusual tension in the older man’s voice, and a smell of cigarette around him despite having quit years ago. “When was the last time?”

“For the celebration of… something?” Roger jokes.

“Exactly,” the guitarist nods with a smile, white curls following the movement.

“Really?” He asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hmm, please. Follow me.”

The three men pass by a receptionist, dozens of unknown faces and more gold albums hung on walls to finally reach the polished oak door of Jim’s office.

Without any warning, he stops and turns, Brian nearly running into him. “Look! I– it was not my idea, but I couldn’t really say no, you see.”

“Oh no,” Roger whispers under his breath as he takes his glasses off. “Brian, I think you were right.”

“What?” Jim frowns and shakes his head. “No, no. Look… Just, don’t hold it against me, alright?”

Their attentions are piqued once more.

The hinges creak lightly as the producer opens the door and the two musicians step into the office. This time, Roger is the one who nearly runs into the tall guitarist, all of sudden frozen. “What the…!” He looks up at his companion for a laugh but changes his mind when he sees Brian staring with intensity at something on the opposite side of the room. With interest, he follows the gaze. And he stops breathing.

There, standing across the table, a ghost.

“John.”

Brian’s voice is barely a whisper, but the name hangs in the air, out of place.

“Hello, Brian.” The reply is simple, short, almost absurd. Then, a light smile appears on his lips, and his eyes turn. “Hello, Roger.”

Silence is the answer from the drummer, who still doesn’t know the proper reaction to have. All Roger can manage is to bite the inside of his cheek, to prevent whatever feeling is about to come out.

In some way, Brian and Roger are not aware of the passage of time -their schedule relatively the same for 50 years (fewer parties tho), with concerts, rehearsals, tours, fans screaming their names… the pattern didn’t really change. And yet, now facing John, they feel the weight of those years in their very marrow. Their ex-bandmate looked the same, but oh-so different. John still has that smile and tooth gap, those unreadable greyish eyes surrounded by crow’s feet at their corners, that voice light like a cartoon character but sharp enough on its corners to cut you. However, he looks paler and shorter. The voice, raspier. No more hair, except on his temples. A little round belly and a weary face. Like theirs.

“This is a… surprise, to say the least.” Brian was always the diplomatic one, keeping his composure during interviews or answering questions when the other ones didn’t want to, and, well, he enjoys talking. So today, he decides once more to wear the UN Blue helmet.

John nods. “Nice euphemism Brian. I appreci-”

“I just remembered I have an important appointment,” Roger cuts John off, without sparing him a glance, “Like, right now actually.”

If eyes are truly the window to a person’s mind, then the drummer is literally reading in Brian’s eyes ‘What the actual bloody fuck Roger?!’ But instead, his older friend placidly asks: “An appointment?”

“Yeah, I can’t move it. Ophthalmologist,” he points at his eyes with a tattooed hand. “You know how long it takes to have a consultation.”

Behind Brian’s shoulder, Jim remains silent, way too familiar with Queen’s dramas to know when to step aside. The guitarist insists. “Seriously Rog’?”

“Yes, seriously Brian! I will call you later. Bye Miami.”

About to leave, his hand is on the door handle when he hears him.

“Roger.”

His good ear twitches at the sound and he turns to face his ex-colleague. “I have to leave your company, sorry. And maybe, oh I don’t know, you will never hear from me again,” Roger claims, a constricted grin on his lips, “But I imagine you are familiar with this concept, John.”

And then, he disappears, letting the door hiss quietly shut behind him. There is a moment of silence, a moment for the three other men to process what just happened. Once in a while, Brian too still tastes the sour vestiges of resentment and frustration, but he understands –oh yes, he understands so well why the younger musician decided to move away, and in all honesty, he has no right to judge him. “Sorry about that, John.” Brian talks first, and a wave of nostalgia hits him when he sees this old John shrugs nonchalantly.

“It’s okay. I expected such a reaction from him.”

“Well yeah… you know Roger.”

“No.” The pause after this word seems endless, “I don’t know him anymore.”

John’s trademark. The naked truth of what he is thinking, no matter if it hurts him or the one in front of him.

“And what reaction were you expecting from me then?”

“I hoped you would stay Brian.”

“I am staying.”

“Good.”

It’s not like these two men have never cared or loved each other. They are, reciprocally, both part of an interlude of 25 crazy years in each other’s lives, through thick and thin. Sure, conversation between them was not always easy –it happens between similar personalities, even if none of them would admit that fact. But now, in their twilight years, it seems that John is more inclined and at ease to talk with Brian, and such unanticipated development makes him smile.

“Okay, since the storm passed, I suggest we all take a seat,” Jim says and walks behind his desk to sit down.

John is about to follow suit and sit around the meeting table, but he stops mid-motion, noticing Brian is walking towards him. Unexpectedly, the taller man leans forward and wraps an arm around his ex-bandmates’ shoulders, drawing him into a short hug that’s awkward but, to John’s surprise, welcome nonetheless. He reciprocates, one hand resting on his back. “Did we already hug before?”

They pull apart and Brian takes a few seconds to consider the question. “I think we did, yes. Many times!”

That prompts a giggle from John, and both men eventually sit down around the table.

“So?” the guitarist starts with interest, “I guess you are not here to make small talks about families and such. Not that I wouldn’t love to hear about them.”

“Am I that transparent?” he jokes. “You’re right. They are all good by the way! But no, no. Actually, I have a favour –well, that is not the right word. I have something I would like to do but I won’t without your approval,” John explains, fingers running over the edge of the round table.

“Yeah, sure Deaky,” the old nickname slips out like it was never confined into the archive of Brian’s mind.

“It’s about my royalties. And my part in Queen’s legacy.” The words make Brian frown curiously but John carries on. “I no longer want to be the beneficiary of it. I want Veronica to be the exclusive recipient of any future income. I want her name to appear on any legal paper concerning Queen instead of mine from now.”

Silence.

“Really?” Jim abruptly asks from behind his desk.

John nods. “Yes. Look –it won’t change a thing for the other beneficiaries, you know? This modification won’t interfere with your royalties. Or Roger’s. Or anyone else. It’s just about my piece of the cake you know? And, I want it to be Veronica’s from now.”

The atmosphere changes in the room, just as the light in Brian’s eyes. “Right…”

“Brian look, do not think this request is about me denying or repudiating all I did with you. No. You’re wrong,” he explains, “…once more,” and adds with a sardonic smile the guitarist knows too well –that same mocking smile which often provoked feelings of homicidal rage from Brian decades ago. The vision is oddly soothing.

Brian smiles back. “I know Deaky.”

“And, I won’t do anything without your approval. Or Roger’s.”

“Well… as you said it changes nothing for us. So, I don’t see why I would have objections. And I think Roger wouldn’t be against it either.” Brian looks over his shoulders. “Miami?”

The manager holds his palms up in a show of agreement. “Sure. If everybody agrees… I guess you can come back in a week John. I will ask the lawyers to prepare them and the papers will be ready. Your presence is needed for the signatures though. Your wife’s too.” Jim flipped his datebook, nodding to himself. “What about next Thursday in a week, same time?”

A nod. “Alright,” the former bassist consents, quite pleased by the unanimity. “In a week. We will be there.” It seems like he wants to add something else, but his gaze gets drawn to his fists, both clenched and resting on the table.

“May I be curious?” The older guitarist asks after seconds of silence, “Why such a decision? Did you find some kind of trick to pay fewer taxes or…?”

John laughs gently, his reputation of being practical with money or even tight with it not forgotten. “I wish. But no, no it’s just—”

The sentence ends with a gap, so uncharacteristic of John. The man, behind his mask of quietude and composure, has one of the sharpest mind and tongue Brian knows -a talent that can make you want to curl on the ground and cry in two seconds. So, if John has difficulties to finish a line, it means something is very wrong. Brian instinctively holds his breath.

“I have cancer. Pancreatic cancer.” John states. “A quite aggressive one.”

Everything becomes much too quiet around them, and the only sound heard is a gasp from Jim.

Brian blinks and his intellect starts working quickly, as always, connecting the dots to remember what he heard about the disease and its possible outcomes. And what comes to his mind looks more like a noisy alarm siren with red flashing light than a formal report: Low survival rate. Between one to three years. Terminal.

His voice is nearly a whine. “…what?”

John stares at him for a moment, speculating what exactly the ‘what’ stands for, and decides. “I am at stage 4 to be more specific. They gave me between ten months and one year. And that’s why I want Veronica to be the exclusive beneficiary. I want to settle things, to protect my family,” he explains with a displaced monotonous tone. “I was diagnosed a month ago.”

No. Brian blanches. He feels the blood leaves his face and rushes to form a knot in the center of his chest. “How– why– Deaky, I…” He starts but doesn’t finish. “John did… how long…”

With a small smile, the former bassist takes pity of the guitarist and cuts him off. “I was diagnosed a bit late. I didn’t read the early signs properly I guess.” There is finality in his voice. “Cigarettes didn’t help either.”

And John shrugs.

He shrugs.

As if this didn’t really matter, as if he was talking about some restaurant that he didn’t like, and Brian only wants to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him like he did a couple of times decades ago. Because no no no no no no it can’t be happening. Not again. In Brian’s rational mind, he is supposed to be the one dying next. The natural order. The oldest one. Not the youngest one!

“There is only a five percent chance of survival with surgery and very brutal chemo. And the survival is only of a few more months,” John continues steadily, “So I decided: no surgery or chemo.”

“Deaky! You can’t-”

“Don’t worry, I am not irresponsible,” he interrupts. “I have medication.”

Brian stares John over, lingering on his face, on how his hands rest on the table, rubbing his right thumb over the left hand’s knuckles; and maybe it’s cliché or not even true, but he’s now noticing how thinner and paler he looks. Not obvious signs, but there anyway.

“I had a very great life. I couldn’t have asked for anything more,” John continues, “Well, maybe the tiny regret for not having spent more time with a couple of friends,” he adds, chuckling humourlessly.

A blow in the guts would have been less painful, and Brian takes a deep, measured breath. “H-how has your family handled it?” The question sounds hollow, even to him.

“They have no real choice actually. The kids are dealing with it as best as they can. And Ronnie–” John pauses, feeling like a stone got stuck in his throat, and he swallows down. “–she has always been the strongest one. The rock of this family. I know she will endure and survive.”

“And you?”

“I am surprisingly fine. Tired, yes. But that’s all for now. The upcoming months… are going to be the hardest ones.” Again, a shrug. “Yeah, you really don’t need the details.”

They’ve gone from radio silence to nostalgic normalcy in the span of just ten minutes, and while they’ve been through too much to ever truly become strangers, Brian doesn’t expect to play the confidant yet.

“John–”

“It’s okay Brian. Look, I am not here to ask you or Rog or Jim anything, you know?” he says while observing the manager who is still hopelessly silent behind his desk and turns his attention back on his ex-bandmate. “I just thought that after everything we went through, the good and the bad, during years —I felt that I owed you that. I had to tell you, face to face.”

Loyalty. John decided to come out of loyalty. A hackneyed word nowadays, twisted and perverted in many discourses or ideas, but a word the three aging men understand at their very core.

“Could you tell Roger?”

“Deaky, I think… you should be the one telling him.”

“Well, I just tried,” John retorts with a tightening in his throat. “And I know you will handle him better than I, so… Could you tell him for me please?”

Brian nods, white curls bouncing around his shoulders, and John smiles. “Thank you.”

In a need of contact, the older man puts his hand on the younger one’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. Hazel and grey eyes meet and the moment lingers comfortably.

Eventually, John clears his throat, in fear that his voice would break the next time he opens his mouth, and speaks: “Okay, huh, that’s enough attention on my insignificant self for one day,” he says, hands on the armrests to stand. “I have to go anyway. A doctor’s appointment at the hospital.”

John gets on his feet. At the same time, Brian moves forward and before John can escape it, wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace. The youngest of the old men stands stiffly but relaxes eventually, his hands finding the guitarist’s back to return the hug. He tries to remember the last time they held each other like this, and the memory of Freddie’s death comes to John’s mind. It makes his full body contracts, and Brian pulls him closer.

“I can’t remember if I’ve ever said it—”

“Don’t,” John warns, aware of what is coming. “No Brian. You really don’t have to.”

“—I love you Deaky,” Brian finishes, his voice trembling from suppressed sobs.

They don’t say anything during the next seconds, words pointless. Too many years and too much practice of silence between them taught the two men when there isn’t really anything to add. John bites down on the inside of his cheek to prevent tears from falling down, but the grey eyes are already glassy.

“I was- I am an awful friend,” he confesses against Brian’s shoulder.

Tightening his arms around John one last time, the guitarist pulls back.

“Of course you are!” He smiles. “It’s because you’re not a simple friend Deaky. You are a brother. You are family. And family can be such a pain in the ass!”

The two men giggle and take advantage of this interlude to wipe away what remains on their moist cheeks.

“I –it never was my intention, to hurt you or Roger, you know?” John whispers, and Brian’s only reaction is his hand finding his friend’s shoulder again. “Never. And if I did with my distance or silence. I am very sorry. It’s just— I had to.”

“We know that.”

“Sorry.”

“No. Don’t.”

“Okay.” Another shrug, and if it is not from the red in his eyes, it would be hard to guess the tears John shed seconds ago.

“I would like to see you again,” Brian says with hesitation. “If you are okay with that of course.”

“Don’t feel obligated Brian. You and Roger own me nothing, and I don’t want to be a bother.”

“What? No. Of course you’re not. Look, I am not suggesting deep and long conversations –unless you want it– but, I don’t know… maybe next week, after you signed the papers with Veronica, you could both come for tea time at my place? Or maybe for dinner?”

The slight frown that appears on John’s face convince Brian to be more specific. “It will be just you, Veronica, me, and Anita. She will be pleased to see you both. Just a simple dinner. Nothing fancy. The four of us.”

And at his own words, the guitarist turns to the manager, remembering his presence. “Sorry, Jim.”

“No problem.” he replies and raises his hands in a sign of support.

“So… is it that okay with you John?”

The former bassist manages only a one-sided grin, sort of crooked and almost a frown but his features eventually soften. “Yes, why not? A simple dinner.”

“The simplest one, yeah,” Brian confirms with a reassuring smile and his hand leaves John’s shoulder. “Great.”

As the meeting is clearly coming to an end, Jim coughs and joins the two other men standing by the table. He offers his hand to John, who takes it happily. “So, John, you can come back in a week. Same day, same hour. Or anytime, really!” he specifies. “But in a week, everything will be ready for you and Veronica: papers, contracts, ink…”

“Thank you, Miami.” The man smiles and Jim returns it, before walking towards the door to open it.

“I promise I will make an effort for the menu.”

John looks at Brian as they walk to the exit and he shakes his head with that smirk. “Meat?”

“Well…” A pause. “I will find something. It will be edible. I assure you. Pizzas maybe?”

“Finally! I was running out of battery.”

The way the three men freeze on the threshold and turn in synch is almost funny to Roger. Almost.

Brian’s hazel eyes widen slightly. “Rog’.”

“You stayed?” Jim continues.

“As you can see Miami! But don’t worry, I was not eavesdropping at your door,” he says and points at the red leather sofa behind him, “I was just there, on this very uncomfortable couch, reading magazines or the news on my phone, waiting patiently.” He crosses his arms over his chest: “Your door is too thick anyway…”

“And your appointment?” Brian asks only to unsettle the drummer

“Well, I mixed the days. Blame my poor old brain.”

“You could have joined us.”

“Oh no, I didn’t want to trouble this heart-warming reunion between you,” he turns, casting a side glance at John. “To be honest I am stunned that you stayed and didn’t vanish in the middle of this reunion to disappear, as you know how to do so well.”

“Roger.” Brian snaps.

“It’s okay,” John cuts him off, “I guess I deserve it.”

Such a reaction was unanticipated, and Roger’s answer is silence, disbelief written all over his face.

John steps closer but doesn’t extend his hand, preferring to look rude and impolite than endure another rejection. He stands still and presses his lips together, weary eyes lingering on his ex-bandmate, silently trying to sear into his memory a last glimpse of Roger.

This is it. As simple words as they are, his throat tightens up around them.

“It was good to see you, Roger.” A silent beat. “Goodbye then.”

He gives a smile and a nod, and turns away.

A tiny voice in Roger’s head tells him to stop John, to ignore the last decade, to offer him a pint of Fullers and to catch up the time wasted. But a much bigger voice starts to list the ignored messages, the months and years of silence, the distance he unilaterally chose to put between them… After deciding to turn his back on what they created, Roger knows he won the right to do the same now. A fair giving-back. Right?

“Can we get inside?” the drummer heads to the office without waiting for an answer.

Jim follows, and Brian doesn’t move, wearing an unreadable expression on his face as his eyes are still lingering on the now-empty corridor. “Sure Rog’…”

The three men enter the office: Jim finds again his place behind his desk, Brian prefers to stay up, looking outside the window, and Roger, without knowing it, sits down on the chair formerly occupied by John.

“So,” he begins with irritation, “it’s not that I am curious, but what did he want? He was there to ask something, right? So?” Only silence follows. “Hmm, Miami?”

The direct inquiry startles the manager and he straightens up on his chair. “He –wanted to talk about his royalties.”

“What? Why?”

“He, huh, wants his wife to be the exclusive recipient of them,” he explains, fiddling with the edges of his notebook. “He said that it changes nothing for you or Brian or anyone else. And he is right! But he wants your approval. Both of you.”

Roger shifts slightly in surprise and his stare searches for Brian for clarification but his friend is still by the window, his back to him.

“Yeah… yeah,” he pauses. “Right. It changes nothing actually. So, yes, I have nothing against that. He can do as he wants. I don’t care. But why though?”

“You should have been there,” Brian whispers, looking outside as melted snowflakes cling to the glass.

There is a hint of something in his old friend’s voice that Roger doesn’t like. Steadily, he turns in his chair to look up at him who still staring at the cotton wool clouds.

“Well, I wasn’t Brian.” And it is not even an excuse. “So… that’s it? He only wanted to talk about business and cash?”

After years of distance and silence, John decided to return into their lives to talk about money? Incredible. Out of frustration, Roger releases a sigh despite himself.

“He wanted to say goodbye.”

A frown flickers across the drummer’s face.

“Goodbye?”

After seconds in which Brian seems to debate his options, he turns around, facing now his bandmate. “He is ill. Very ill.”

Roger stares at him blankly.

“Pancreatic cancer. Stage 4.”

And something like ice floods Roger’s veins.

“You know what it means Rog’.”

Yes, he knows what it means.

He looks up at Brian, then back to Jim, then back at Brian and –his brain may have short-circuited a little, the only thought crossing it being ‘not again’. He can’t follow the shape of his own thought, can’t understand what he heard. It makes no sense! John was standing in front of him one minute ago. He looked perfectly fine! “You… must have heard wrong.”

“I was there,” Brian says.

“So was I,” Jim confirms.

And Roger was not.

Once the computer error in his brain fixed, he opens his mouth but no sound comes out, a solid weight in his stomach making him want to curl.

“What—” his big blue eyes take a look up at the guitarist to find some support. “What did he say?”

Brian exhales, taking a few steps to pull out a chair, and sits down by his friend’s side.

“He talked about his illness. He said that he was diagnosed a month ago, that… there is zero to five percent of chance of survival with a very damaging treatment, so he won’t do it,” he explains carefully, and Roger doesn’t realize he’s shaking his head all along. “He has between 10 months and one year. More or less.”

It feels like every last nerve in Roger’s body is white-hot as his blood runs cold.

Brian goes on. “He said that after all the things we went through together, he owed you a face to face conversation. He is not asking for anything… he just wanted us to know.”

Another deep breath and the guitarist rests his elbows on his knees, hands together as if he is about to start praying at any moment. “He said that he regrets to not have spent more time with us. He said that he didn’t want to cause us any hurt. He said that he was an awful friend.” With each additional assertion, a new wisp of hurt flashes into his voice.

“He said that he was sorry,” he whispers now. “You… you should have been there Rog’.”

Yes. He should have been there. Another bad decision he can add to the list of bad decisions taken in the haste of extreme feelings. Roger’s face remains stoic, and if it weren’t for his eyes growing slowly reddish and glassy, you’d almost think he hadn’t heard a word.

He feels dazed.

“I must see him.”

“Not today,” is Brian’s response, and Jim nods silently along. “He has an appointment at the hospital.”

The drummer sighs out at last and looks down at his hands. They are shaking.

“Call him tomorrow. I know you, Roger… You need a night to sleep on it, before you decide what to do or to say, without regrets.”

This paternalistic tone is really not what Roger needs to hear right now. He rises, muttering something under his breath, and starts pacing around the table like a caged lion, until he stops, and is, in turn, the one at the window. No doubt that all the eyes in the room are on his back.

“I was wondering,” the guitarist breaks the silence, “Our coming tour is—”

Roger’s whole body instantaneously spins. “Are you really thinking about the tour right now Brian?!”

“Yes, I am Roger!” he retorts as fast. “Because if I count properly, and I know I do, we will be on tour when he will—”

The line remains incomplete in his mouth, too consequential to finish it, and Brian grimaces at his own words. Roger feels nauseous.

The two friends held a silent conversation, eyes locked, and neither looked away until there is a tiny, choked gasp from the drummer. “I have to get out there. I need a walk…”, he mumbles. “To clear my head.”

Brian stands up, looking over his shoulder at Jim who nods, and starts to pull on his coat. “Yeah me too. I’ll come with you.”

11th December, 4:37 p.m.

The snow is falling in heavy clumps and the house is quiet. Veronica is having lunch with a distant cousin, the kids are out for christmas shopping and John listens to the rare silence. He likes silence.

Then a clatter of metal and the man sighs. Walking the few paces to the couch where he previously left it, he picks up his phone, and read the name of the caller. Roger. He looks at the screen again, almost seeming to ignore the call and to let Roger leaves a message to a metallic voicemail. Knowing his reluctance to anything hi-tech, this prospect sounds truly tempting -but John decides to slide the green button.

“Yes?”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a long silence. “Hello. I–”

Silence again, and John furrows his brow. “Yes?”

“This… this isn’t easy.” Neither is this conversation. “I mean, I– I’ve always preferred face to face exchanges.”

“I imagine.” It’s so…diplomatic. Roger is a lot of things in the memory of the former-bassist, and diplomatic is not one of them. But people change.

John makes his way to the bay window. Snow swirls in the air, smothering the flowers on the house’s facade with a blanket. But a navy blue form against the white stands still by the house’s doorstep and catches John’s attention. The sides of his lips tilt upwards.

“Sorry Roger, I have to hang up. There is a Jehovah’s witness at my doorstep.”

Without waiting for an answer, he ends the conversation and pulls back the curtains of the window to enjoy the scenery.

Outside, standing immobile at the front door, Roger’s expression passes from surprise to confusion and then pure irritation in a matter of seconds. John even read along ‘what the fuck? what the fuck?’ on his lips. It is hard to say exactly how long he has been out, in front John’s place, waiting for the right moment, but by the substantial amount of snow on his hat, a good 10 minutes.

Roger’s vindictive monologue with the door is interrupted by a tapping on the window. He turns his face and finds John’s amused one through the pane. Oh shit… He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve lied. No! He shouldn’t have called John in the first place. After decades of crazy decisions taken in hast, Roger seems to have learned nothing from them.

But the front door opens too quickly to turn around.

Roger straightens up his stand. “Huh. John.”

“Roger.”

“Can I come in?”

Stepping aside, John lifts one hand in the air to emphasis his point, “After you,” and closes the door behind the unexpected-guest,

Prudently, Roger makes his way in the entrance, shaking the snow from his hat and shoulders, and unwraps the scarf from his neck. He’s clearly tense, blue eyes darting around constantly as if to ensure he is in the right house. And he is, the moments he once spent here bursting in his memory through a vault he thought locked tight.

“This place didn’t change. At all.”

“I like that,” John says as he steps into the living room, where Roger already laid his coat on an empty chair. “It is reassuring to have the same stable foundatio- ”

“Were you really not going to tell me?” Roger interrupted.

“I tried to tell you.”

“Well, you should have insisted more!”

Everything is quiet around them. Not a sound comes from the house or the street, every noise muffled by the snow, and all both men can hear for a moment is Roger’s breath.

John sighs. “Look… if you came here only to be angry at me or to expound the many reasons for your hate for me, you should leave.”

“Hate?!” Roger face twitches like he’s trying hard to hold in a sneeze. “I don’t hate you! I wish I did though.”

“Okay… I guess?” To be honest, nothing is going on particularly okay. “So, huh, do you want to drink anything? Scotch? Water? Hemlock?” A white eyebrow raises at him. “Come on, you’re a biologist. It’s funny!”

“I’ve never b—” Roger suppresses a groan and John, a laugh. “Water would be fine for me.”

His answer is a smile and John disappears into the kitchen.

Hands in pockets, the old drummer shuffles alone into the living room, and he seems unsure how to proceed. He feels like an intruder. Out of place. Christ, this is awkward. The room is pleasant, elegant, and the furniture of good quality yet simple. Nothing too fancy or too modern -definitely not decorated by John. There is a table large enough to seat eight near the windows, and a corner sofa by the veranda, most likely placed there to take advantage of the light. He catches what he thinks is a dog bowl in the garden but John never has been very fond of pets, right? Or maybe his old eyes are playing tricks on him once more. And, in a corner, a Christmas tree with lace ribbons and ornaments.

“There is nothing in this living room indicating you were in a band,” Roger claims loud enough for John, a very slight tone of blame in his voice. “Or that you are even a musician.”

“There is a piano in the veranda,” he answers from the kitchen, “but it is Ronnie’s.”

“Hm.”

John returns in the living room, two glasses of water in hands. “You know, I keep one picture with the four of us, in what I consider my office.” Roger’s eyes narrow a fraction at these words. “My basement-slash-garage, where I tinker with my electronic clutter or do my correspondence. And, yeah? I think there are an acoustic and a Fender as well? Somewhere?” John hands the glass to his guest, who seems unable to tell if the last statement is a hoax or the truth. “Your water.”

Silence again, and John tilts his head to look at Roger like he’s actually waiting for something.

“Huh…thank you.”

“It must be hard.” The words come out with amusement but the jab is ignored. John sips, observing Roger over his glass’ rim. “Why are you here Roger?”

“Brian told me.”

“I already guessed that.”

Why is he here? No evident answer crosses his mind. He just felt that he had to come, something in his guts. Like when salmons swim back to the upper reaches of the river where they began their existence only to die there. Nothing logical. Only instinct.

“You cannot die!” Roger shouts, almost a command, and it rings almost comical.

“Why’s that?”

“You are the youngest one. You should be the one burying us all!” His voice is getting angrier with every word, and this is absolutely not what he planned to sound like.

John wants to be mad. He wants to abhor Roger’s presence for just showing up out of nowhere to yell at him -or worse, for coming to give his pity. But, he can’t. Disliking Roger always has been impossible.

He smiles. “Don’t be that pessimistic Rog’. We have a few months ahead before I’m gone. You may traverse the street tomorrow and be run over by a car?”

“Oh shut up Deaky,” he snaps, the affectionate nickname escaping his lips and Roger regrets this weakness right away. He closes his eyes… “It is your fault, you know.”

“The cancer?”

… and opens them again only to roll them in an excellent imitation of an exasperated teenager. “No, John! Not the cancer. The silence. The distance. The time wasted. The rest!”

It isn’t graceful, or polite, or remotely empathetic. The words are brash and a bit shaken, and John almost grimaces when he hears them. Decades ago, this could have been ignored with a ‘We all make mistakes!’ or ‘Shit happens…’ or ‘Fuck you Rog!’, and it would have ended with pints of beer –they threw at each other much worse insults. But after years of silence, and distance, and time wasted, John isn’t so sure anymore how to read Roger’s remarks, and Roger doesn’t know how to talk to John anymore.

Greyish eyes stare back into blue ones, before they fall on the glass he is still holding in his hands.

“Okay,” John says, “I really don’t need that right now, so…I will ask you to leave Roger.”

Without a sound, he passes by the drummer, walks towards the armchair in front of the coffee table, and sits down there. As his demand remains ignored, he reiterates it, pointing at the front door. “Please?”

Roger is a lot of things, but he has never been a coward –he’s never stepped back from responsibilities or desire or crazy ideas. Sure, fear has been there often, but never sufficient to make him flee, particularly for a friend. His fists clench. A friend.

Time seems to stand still as the two old men stare defiantly at each other, until Roger, notably, is the first to give up and to look at his feet. His breath comes out with a rare measure of apprehension and he decides to move, yet not towards the front door.

A half dozen steps and he is in front of John. He eventually sits down on the coffee table and opens his mouth only to close it, bearing a striking resemblance to a goldfish.

The two men barely spoke or interacted in the last decade, with the exception of small talks about business and money. It seems Roger has no idea how to start what it seems a difficult conversation and John can see his mind working towards some sort of complex solution.

“Roger?”

“Wait! I-” his index raises between them. “I’m thinking.”

“Okay.”

And they go awkwardly quiet again.

Roger leans forward to relieve some of his weight from the table, his fingers drumming nervously against its edge, and big blue eyes glance around as though the words may come from mid-air. By the fifth minute of silence, John comes to the conclusion that the duty to open the discussion falls on his shoulders.

“Look Roger, you owe me nothing,” he starts, calmly. “If you don’t want to be there, then just go. Do not feel obligated to do or to say anything. I don’t need your pity. And to be honest, I would really prefer your hate.” A faint smile lifts the corner of his lips. How typical.

“I could nev-”

Roger stops immediately. Another round of silence stretches into the air and he stiffens.

“Years ago, I… made a promise, Brian too, to someone very dear to me. And very dear to you. He has always known that you were the most fragile one. And even during his last moments he—”

He can’t finish the line, because even after almost 30 years, it is still impossible to wrap his tongue around any sentence involving Freddie and Death at the same time. He sighs through his nose and slams his eyes shut before reopening them. “I made the promise to look after you. To look after our little brother. And I… it feels like I didn’t keep this promise.”

The concept makes John frown. “Roger, there is nothing you could have done for what is happening to me.”

“I am not talking about that. I am talking about the rest. I…” Roger’s demeanour faintly eases, eyes finally showing something other than the sourness that filled them from the moment he stepped across the threshold. “We lost you.”

He clears his throat, another nervous reflex. “John, look! I know, I know, you needed that. You needed distance and time and to step away. Yes! And we accepted it. But in the end, it… it felt like we lost you. We lost another brother.”

A sincere, even affectionate, look begins to steal over his face. “And, and, and, maybe I am wrong, but I have the feeling you lost a tiny part of yourself as well with this silence. I don’t know. Perhaps it is selfish! Maybe, I’m overthinking, it’s just—”

He pauses to choose his words carefully. “I miss you. Not all the time! Not every day, but… I do. From time to time, I think ‘Oh I wish Deaky was there’.”

There’s a long break during which they just stare at each other. John smiles, close-mouthed but genuine, eyes dangerously glassy: “I miss you too you know? From time to time. Hell –I even miss Brian!” He jokes and swallows hard before breathing again.

There is the ghost of a grin on Roger’s lips. “It’s silly but, even if I know you retired, that you didn’t want to play anymore, that you put Queen and music behind you… I still had, deep down, hidden under tons of concrete made of facts and realism, I still had this insignificant, senseless, ridiculous hope that, maybe one day, you would want to play with us again. And now—” This is risky territory, and he knows it by the tremor in his voice. “—now this tiny hope is gone. For good.”

His eyes burn hot, and a sob tears from his lips but he isn’t crying. He isn’t. It’s like all his tension, all his resentment, all of his love is trying to escape him at once. It’s too much for tears. Roger just wants to bloody scream.

“Fuck, I… I don’t want you to die!”

John snorts at the request. “Me neither.” Without thinking about it, he places a wrinkly hand on his chest, like if trying to catch this failure, trying to control this bomb inside of him. “I am terrified.”

The unforeseen vulnerability of this confession deflates Roger’s composure. And tears finally start to spill out.

Christ, they are both fucking idiots.

“Why did we have to wait for such an event to talk to each other again?”

“I don’t know, really,” John breathes and wipes his nose with the back of his fist. “A few months ago, I wanted to see you, you know? I thought ‘maybe I could write to Brian? Or call Roger? Just like that!’. But yeah, I changed my mind I guess.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know… I thought, with everything happening to both of you now, maybe you didn’t c–” he stops, mid-sentence, like it’s getting too weighty for him to deliver another word.

The drummer remains still, quietly sniffing, until it dawns on him.

“–maybe we didn’t care?”

The only answer from John is a shrug. And Roger’s heart drops.

For a second, he wants to be angry again. How hard is a phone call, or an email, or a card to confirm if they indeed do not care about him? Hell, he was the one who stepped away, the one who said he w— This doesn’t matter. Something restrains those feelings: the idea that John imagined Roger and Brian ceased to care about him is devastating.

His lips part, grasping for words, and as they find they have none, Roger pulls himself to his feet. The move is fast, making John lean backward in the armchair to look up at him.

“Get up Deaky.”

A frown. “Are you going to punch me?”

“For fuck’s sa… I’m gonna hug you! And I can’t do it with you in this armchair without throwing my back out.”

“Look, you really don’t have to. Brian already hugged me twice yesterday.”

“Precisely. Up.”

After a sigh, John obeys.

The pair face each other until Roger moves forward and gathers the other man in a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around him. Chin on his ex-bandmate’s shoulder, John stands stiff. It is easy to let Roger envelop him with his affection and natural cheer, for he always had this mysterious gift to get people comfortable and warm, to drag them in his welcoming aura like a giant sun.

They’re still for a moment until John slowly places his arms around him in return. All the feelings rise again dangerously to the surface and threaten to pour out of him in a tidal wave of emotions.

Imperceptibly, Roger tightens his embrace. “No matter what,” —he hates how his voice sounds watery— “You’re my little brother. The only one I will ever have.”

Shock robs John’s senses for he isn’t sure if he imagined these words or not. He swallows and presses closer, clinging on tight as tears start to run over his cheeks. Maybe with this embrace, he will make clear that his distance was never against him or Brian. That he masks all his fears and hurt with spikes of silence and sarcasm because it’s easier for him to handle.

They remain locked in their embrace a few seconds longer. Looking at it from the exterior the scene may be strange, but these two weepy old men really don’t care.

They eventually pull back, both red-faced, cheeks tearstained.

Roger mumbles: “We’re too old for that.”

“Particularly you.”

“Please.” Despite the gravity of their prior conversation, the drummer can’t help but smile, and the knot in his chest starts to untie itself. He rubs his nose with his palm. “You know what? I could really use a scotch now.”

“Okay.”

Promptly, John walks across the room to reach a small cupboard and takes out a bottle of scotch. “Directly from Scotland,” he explains, the voice is still unsteady, and pours the liquor in Roger’s glass. “My son sent it to us. Be my guest.”

An offer hard to refuse. Roger lifts the glass and sniffs the sweet perfume before taking a sip: “Hmm, you don’t want to join me?”

“No. I quit.”

The drummer’s (still red) eyes widen slightly, for this is the farthest thing he expected. It is not a secret that John went through tumultuous and self-destructive phases, with excessive boozing and partying leaving him feeling depressed or hollow. But people change, for good or bad reasons. And the decision to quit alcohol seems to definitely be part of the good ones.

Even though there is this lethal sword of Damocles hanging over his head, John looks fine. Appeased. With a smile, Roger places a hand on the younger man’s shoulder to squeeze it slightly before pulling away.

His glass now empty, he places it on the coffee table. “So, Brian told me he invited you and Veronica for dinner, next week.”

“Indeed.”

“I was wondering… can I come too?”

“You are asking for my permission?”

“I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Roger admits. “If a dinner for six is too much, I would understand.”

His face is impossibly affectionate –to the point where John frowns, but he doesn’t avert his gaze. He has the impression that if he said ‘no’, Roger wouldn’t argue, would just accept the verdict without raising his white eyebrows or his voice.

“Are you sure you want to come?” John questions with a grin, and the drummer looks over at him with an expression clouded by anxiety. “I mean, who wants to have dinner with a sociopath?”

All the air leaves Roger’s lungs. “What?! No no no John, I’ve never…Well, I did but –Look! This wasn’t my intention. I-I was just–” he stammers, and the more he does, the more John’s smile grows, until a laugh bubbles out of his throat.

“It’s okay Rog’,” he says to save his friend from his ramblings. “I mean; I call you ‘that blonde blind bitch’ daily.”

“Oh shut up Deaky.” Again.

And with that, all the pressure in the room fades away.

“Of course you can come,” John speaks, “I think I can survive a diner of six, but… please Rog, could you both not talk about music the whole time?”

“Fine! I will let Brian make the conversation,” he retorts and crosses his arms over his chest in a scornful way that doesn’t augur any good outcome. “Prepare yourself for hours of ecological issues and useless details about wild animals.”

A laugh, this time shared by both men, and a weight lifts from their shoulders the exact second they reach this familiar territory of jokes and comfortable bantering. It is like coming back to a favourite place you were gone from for so long, but never truly forgetting which parquet-floor boards creaked.

“Alright, since we’re having this heart to heart conversation, I need to ask you the real question.”

The frisky tone makes John curious.

“Did you see the movie?”

He nods. “I did.”

“And? What did you think?”

Greyish eyes narrow a fraction, and Roger fights back a smile. Simply because that irritated look John is currently giving him is so John.

“Well,” John pauses, “The music was good.”

A short but genuine laugh escapes Roger. “Yes, yeah… the music was okay I guess.”

“Barely decent, actually.”

They keep talking like this for about an hour, exchanging anecdotes or little jokes. So many things happened during the last decades that functioning in a normal friendship is a back and forth struggle between small talks and unintended reminders of the past.

But they both believe that they are at the middle ground, and Roger is silently hoping that during the coming weeks, John will permit him to gain back a place in his life. But he has his doubts.

Only when John’s phone buzzes, that he checks the time. “Ronnie,” he says, looking at the message with a soft expression. “She’s asking me what I would like for dinner.”

John seems to think over his options as he quizzically stares up at Roger. Then, a frown, but a slightly annoyed one. “Huh… would you like to stay?”

It’s an innocuous sort of question but asked only out of politeness. And Roger knows it. No matter what, John is well aware of the social conventions when you have a guest -thanks to the 50’s strict upbringing- so he asks, because he had to, not because he wants to.

Roger shakes his head and grins.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have a life you know?” The jest is light but true. Two of his children and Sarina are waiting for him at home, and he knows that he will need their love after the draining afternoon he went through. “And, we have a dinner planned soon, right?”

“Right.”

Both men stood in the vestibule; the drummer pulls on his coat carefully, then ties a scarf around his neck, and John remains silent, those inscrutable grey eyes observing his ex-bandmate.

“See you next week Rog’.”

With his hand on the door handle, Roger’s face turns with a smile. “Next week Deaky.”

~ f i n ~

PLEASE DON’T JUMP DOWN MY THROAT FOR THIS FIC!! this is a work of fiction and tbh, my main focus is on the reconcialiation and the dynamic betwen the three old men. if i offended any one, i am sorry!! in the end, i hope you enjoyed the reading anyway… feel free to tell me what you think of it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#brian may #roger taylor #john deacon #maylor #dealor #breaky #YES I USE THE SHIPS TAGS BECAUSE YOU CAN USE THEM FOR FRIENDSHIP RIGHT???#this fic was sooo hard to write tho #it took me more or less three monthes lmaooo #queen fanfic #queen fanfiction #queen #fanfic #You Should Have Been There #tears tears tears tears

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